


Year Five

by BerityBaker



Series: Year Five 'Verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gryffindor John, Hogwarts AU, M/M, Potterlock, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 44,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerityBaker/pseuds/BerityBaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is well-liked by his fellow Gryffindors, sports a brand-new Prefect badge, and plays as Beater on his House's Quidditch team. Sherlock Holmes is known by some for his genius, and by all for his skill as Seeker for the Ravenclaw team. When John struggles with Potions, he's introduced to Sherlock, who agrees to tutor him. The two develop an unlikely friendship that quickly blooms into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for months, and finally, FINALLY, I am posting the first chapter--a tad earlier than I'd planned, actually. I'm not quite done yet, and that's why there's no chapter count (though it'll probably be upwards of 50), but there may be the tiniest bit of 'intimacy'--to be delicate--at some point, and there's quite a bit of innuendo, so it's 'Mature' for now. I love these (possibly very slightly OOC, but let's not talk about that) teenage wizards much more than is actually healthy when they like-like each other.
> 
> Also, the first few chapters were written before series three, but forgive me if I couldn't resist throwing in nods to series three later on.

“John.”

“Fuck off, Harry, I’m sleeping.”

“John, we’re nearly there.”

He groaned himself awake and rubbed his eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

No one answered, and he opened his eyes fully to see that Harry had closed the door to the compartment behind her and was now probably headed back to her friends at the front of the train.

John hadn’t slept a wink the night before, and so an empty compartment had been welcome onceClara had come to find Harry and drag her off with some other sixth years. John had been left to lie down across one of the seats and let himself drift off. He had expected Moran or Mary or maybe even Stamford to come in and disturb him, but miraculously the door had remained shut and no one had bothered him.Changing into his school robes, he left his tie loose around his neck, not wanting to tighten it until the very last second.

When he stepped off the train, John instantly climbed into the nearest carriage, joining a tall, dark-haired boy he recognized as the Ravenclaw Seeker and a fellow fifth year, Sherlock Holmes,as well as a severe-looking teen with a Head Boy badge and vaguely similar features.

 _That’s what I forgot_. John patted his chest absentmindedly, realizing with a sigh that he’d left his own brand-new Prefect badge in his trunk.

The others in the carriage stared at him, the Head Boy with pure mistrust, Sherlock with heavily masked curiosity. “Mind if I ride up with you?” John asked them, wondering at once whether he even wanted to. Head Boy nodded coldly but casually, as though he were used to being in charge. The other scoffed and turned away to watch the invisible thing that pulled the stagecoach.

The ride was long and uncomfortable. He soon determined the two were brothers, as the Head Boy in green was fussing far too much over a scrawny Ravenclaw for there to be no relation, and he judged by the way they referred to “Mummy” that they were siblings. Each time his elder brother said a word, Sherlock looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. It wasn’t until the carriage reached the end of the drive that John was able to take his eyes off the spectacle that was the Holmes brothers and mentally welcome himself back to Hogwarts.

“John!” Mike Stamford said on sight of him, seeming relieved he’d found someone to talk to and joining John in his walk up the steps to the Entrance Hall. “I looked everywhere for you on the train. What on earth were you doing?”

“Sleeping,” John answered simply. He wasn’t really in the mood to deal with Stamford’s enthusiasm; he already had enough of his own in returning to school.

“Oh, then. I see. Well, catch you after the feast, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I guess.” John seriously doubted whether he would stick around for very long, but he wasn’t going to say anything. He and Stamford separated at the entrance to the Great Hall to take a seat with the rest of their respective houses.

Harry found John at the Gryffindor table and sat next to him. He glanced at the Hufflepuffs and saw Clara chatting with tiny little Molly Hooper animatedly. “So, how was Clara’s summer?” he asked Harry.

“Brilliant. Her family went on holiday to Australia. But you already know that, don’t you?”

“What?”

“I saw you talking to Mike.”

“Oh. Well, we didn’t talk for long. He didn’t mention it.”

Harry seemed disappointed, but there wasn’t much she could do if her brother wasn’t bosom friends with her girlfriend’s, a fact that John was extremely grateful for. They were friendly enough. Mike Stamford was a nice guy and a pretty incredible Beater, but beyond their age and the position they played for their House Quidditch teams, the two boys had very little in common.

John looked over to the Ravenclaws and caught sight of Stamford, looking slightly uncomfortable next to none other than John’s carriagemate from earlier that evening, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes himself was simply sitting as one might have in a particularly boring class, leaning on his elbow and twirling his wand in his other hand. John stared. He had never seen anyone show that little interest in the Sorting, not since--well, not since his own Sorting, when Holmes had actually walked up to the stool _yawning_.

When the new first years entered, John simply watched the mop of curls next to Stamford fall to the table with a thump that he could almost hear from across the room. He kept watching as student after student was called to put on the Hat. At one point, the boy next to Sherlock accidentally elbowed him, and it was when John saw him jerk his head upward and rub his eyes that he realized that the boy had actually fallen asleep.

By the time the Sorting ended and food began to appear on the plates, Holmes looked as though he might commit a murder just so he didn’t have to sit and watch people eat. Because that’s all he was doing—he himself wasn’t eating. He wasn’t talking. He simply sat there, complete and utter boredom making him slouch as his eyes zipped from face to face.

John was startled when Sherlock stood and looked around before discreetly making his way up the aisle between tables, headed for the giant double-doors.

John wanted to follow, but how could he with Harry there? “Harry, I...I don’t feel well. I’m going to go lie down.”

“Don’t you have to take the kiddies to the dormitories?”

John just barely stopped himself from groaning. “Mary can take care of it. She’ll be fine.”

Harry looked at him with mild concern, but there was no trace of a desire to stop him. “Alright. But make sure you’re up early for first day of term tomorrow.”

“I know. I will.” He resented her treating him like a five-year-old, especially when she wasn’t known for always attending class herself, but he decided it was easier to catch flies with honey. “Thanks, Harry.”

When he was free of the babble of hundreds of students eating and speaking with friends they hadn’t seen all summer, John could clearly hear footsteps on the stair to the dungeons. _Surely not_ , he said to himself. Ravenclaws were in Ravenclaw Tower, not the dungeons. Still, he followed his ears, jogging lightly to catch up to the source of the tall shadow that danced across the walls.

“Mr. Watson!” The voice was stern but kind. “What on earth d’you think you’re doing?”

He turned and saw the small woman on the landing behind him. “Sorry, Professor. I was just...taking a walk.”

Instead of questioning his tone, she sighed and turned to walk back up the stairs. “Don’t get into any trouble, please, dear. People might forget you’re a Prefect if you get yourself put in detention.”

“When do I ever get detention, Professor?” he replied, grinning.

She turned to smile at him. “Just don’t start, dear.”

When she was gone, John continued down the stairs, but the mysterious boy with the dark curls was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, we had a cameo there. I couldn't resist. Mrs. Hudson is totally a professor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are with another chapter. I'll try to keep posting every other week, probably typically on Thursday or Friday. While you wait, though, you can go check out my friend [Bella](http://alovelypsychopath.tumblr.com/). She did a great job illustrating the [carriage scene](http://alovelypsychopath.tumblr.com/post/87597536378/year-five-by-berity-baker-aka) from chapter one.

It was two weeks into term, and John was already struggling in Potions. It had always been his worst subject, and the fact that Harry had now dropped it in pursuit of a career that didn’t require Potions NEWTs didn’t help, because he was going to have to rely on his own Potions-challenged brain for his OWLs.

“You don’t _have_ to be a Healer, you know,” she pointed out to him one afternoon in the common room. He’d been groaning over the essay that Professor Gregson had assigned.

“But I _want_ to, I just...bloody hell.” He sighed when his ink bottle spilled over the two lines he’d managed to write.

“What’s wrong, mate?” Moran said, walking up behind and clapping him on the shoulder.

“It’s this damned Potions essay. I have no idea what to write about.”

“Ah, I should’ve known. Well, what’s your favorite poison?”

“Do most people have a favorite poison?”

“No. That’s why you give him some bullshit, mate.”

“Are you kidding? Watson couldn’t give a professor bullshit if his life depended on it,” came a voice from the nearest armchair, and they finally noticed Mary, hidden behind a large volume on the history of the Quidditch World Cup.

“Ah, that’s what you think, Morstan. Watson’s plenty good at bullshit. Remember that excuse he gave McGonagall for hitting Wilkes with the club in the Ravenclaw match last year?”

Harry laughed and mimicked his serious demeanor. “‘I’m so sorry, Professor. He flew right into the path of a Bludger. That broom’s too quick for his own good.’” Everyone joined her at the memory, recalling how John had sent the Ravenclaw captain to the hospital wing sobbing, and how he’d made off with nothing more than a stern look from the headmistress.

John blushed slightly, but he wasn’t about to tell them that that had been the truth of the matter, that Wilkes _had_ simply flown into the path of his already swinging club, and that John would have stopped himself if he’d seen him coming.

That match had caused a lot of uproar among older Ravenclaws, students who knew Harry and her reputation for raising hell. They had assumed like-sister-like-brother, and that John had done the deed on purpose, and demanded if not a forfeit from Gryffindor, then a rematch as soon as Wilkes recovered. Their wishes had not been granted, and many sixth and seventh year Ravenclaws still gave him dirty looks in the corridors.

John laughed a bit with his friends, still trying to focus on his essay. With everyone starting to talk Quidditch, however, he found it difficult to concentrate, and so excused himself to find a quiet corner in the library.

Half an hour later, he was being interrupted again, this time by Mike Stamford. “What do you want, Mike?” he sighed, his patience wearing thin.

“Oh, nothing. Sorry. You just looked like you could use a little break.”

“I could use an _Avada_ _Kedavra_ to the face, that doesn’t mean I should take it.”

“Potions?”

“Bingo.”

Mike bit his lip. “You know...I’ve got an idea.”

“If it’ll get me past the first four lines of this essay, I’m all ears.”

“What would you say to a tutor?”

John stared. “A what?”

“Well, just this morning I was talking with Sherlock Holmes. Poor bloke’s bored out of his mind, and Potions is his best subject. He practically begs Gregson for a challenge every class.”

“I dunno, Mike.”

“Come on. He’s not that bad.”

“I just—wait, what do you mean, ‘not that bad’?”

“Oh, nothing! He’s just got a sort of...reputation.”

“What kind of reputation?”

“How about I just introduce you? Come on, he’s always finding his way into the Restricted Section.” Mike stood and began to make his way through the shelves, and John had no choice but to follow him.

“How are we supposed to get into the Restricted Section without permission?”

“Don’t ask me, you’re the Prefect.”

“Oh. Right.” John recalled the way he’d caught a second-year sneaking by the librarian just last week. He knelt down beside one of the taller bookcases and motioned for Stamford to follow.

Being much more experienced in the art of getting by his elders than the twelve-year-old he’d stopped, the two were able to get to the Restricted Section of the library without raising suspicion or being told off.

“Holmes!” Stamford called, and John spotted the boy at the end of a row, sitting on the floor with a leatherback book covered in ominous stains. He looked up from the page, rolled his eyes on sight of his fellow Ravenclaw, and continued reading.

“Holmes, I wanted to introduce you to someone. This is John Watson, he’s—”

“He needs a Potions tutor.”

“How did you—?” John began.

“Obvious. Stamford and I were talking about the possibility of me occupying my mind by helping a lesser one earlier today, and then he comes along with an athletic Gryffindor whose whole manner of standing with his shoulders slumped suggests stress over an assignment, possibly the Potions essay due tomorrow.”

“Right. Well, John here _does_ in fact need a Potions tutor. What do you think?” John glared at Stamford for putting it like he was some sort of imbecile.

Sherlock Holmes sighed. “I suppose I could take you up on it.” He stood and held out his hand. John shook it hesitantly. “Meet me in the dungeons tonight after dinner.” And with that, he was gone, leaving John to stare after him quizzically.

“Yeah, he’s always like that,” Stamford said, somewhat bitterly, in answer to an unspoken question.

+++

“Come on, Sherlock, can’t we just call it a night?” John whined. It was nearing midnight, and they were still in the freezing dungeons. Sherlock had been fruitlessly quizzing John for a solid four hours, pacing back and forth, squeezing every drop of knowledge of poisons from him and then, when the result was unsatisfactory, throwing his hands up in frustration before starting all over without so much as a word’s warning.

“Absolutely not! John, do you want to finish this essay or not?”

“Oh, is that what you were doing? Helping me with my essay? Why not actually help instead of shouting?”

Sherlock stared at him. “It is not my fault that you are incapable of retaining even the simplest information regarding poisons. If you wish to continue without me, by all means, _be my guest_.”

John could feel the heat creeping up his neck. “Just because I’m not a bloody genius at Potions like you are doesn’t mean you get to treat me like an idiot.”

“And why not?” Sherlock snapped.

“Because I’m not stupid.”

“Yes you are.”

“Oi!”

“Oh, don’t take it personally, practically everyone is.” Sherlock continued his pacing, ignoring John’s incredulous expression. “Now, let’s try again, shall we? The difference between arsenic and arsenia?”

“I don’t know,” John sighed.

“I guessed as much,” Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes in impatience.

“One’s magical and one’s not?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, John. One of them has magical properties, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.”

“Dammit, Sherlock, I’m going to bed,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose before gathering up his things. “Thanks for the help,” he added, his sarcasm extracting a strange look from Holmes.

He was storming from the room when a calm voice from the corner said, “I’m sorry. Let’s try again, shall we?”

John paused in the doorway before finally turning around. “Do you promise not to yell at me?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And do you promise to stop calling me an idiot?”

“I’ll keep it to a minimum.”

“Sherlock...”

“Alright! Fine! I promise.”

“Good. Now, can we finish this essay before one o’clock? I’d like to get a decent amount of sleep this week, first Quidditch match and all.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Not important. Your level of skill isn’t determined by your sleeping patterns.”

“Yeah, but whether or not you fall off your broom has a lot to do with sleep deprivation. Don’t tell me you stay up like this before your matches.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I hardly ever sleep.”

“So what do you do, then? Spend all your time down here brewing potions?”

“That’s exactly what I do.”

John shook his head, staring. “You’re a strange man, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Perhaps, but it’s only due to the world not being strange enough to keep me occupied.”

They both smiled, a sort of understanding passing between them.

“Shall we get back to work, then?” John said after a moment.


	3. Chapter 3

The first Quidditch match of the season was to pit Gryffindor against Slytherin. In the days leading up to it, John was confronted in the typical ways by banter and hostility from both houses, hearing everything from the somewhat frightening “You better not fuck it up, John,” to the astonishingly playful “Are you ready to be annihilated, Watson?”

The latter had come from one Irene Adler, whose Seeking skills were rivaled only by those of Sherlock Holmes. Irene always had a sort of likeable confidence about her—at least, John saw something worthwhile in it. Most thought her rather a bitch, but it wasn’t as if she cared. Her ultimate goal was to be queen bee, and by God, _was_ she. She got on doing whatever she wanted by blackmailing prefects and even sometimes professors, something that she would never talk about specifically but that she would always readily admit to doing.

“I’m ready to annihilate, if that’s what you mean,” he replied.

“Now, we’ll see about that.” She walked away, hips swaying to some unheard beat.

John blinked and shook his head. He would never be able to understand that girl.

“Yes, she is something else, isn’t she?” Sherlock said, appearing to his left. There was a small smile on his face, one that actually reached his eyes.

“Sherlock, do you...you fancy her, don’t you?”

“What? No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“No, I _don’t_. We’re dropping the subject.”

“Fine, fine!”

“So, Potions,” Sherlock said, and John groaned.

“Come on, Sherlock, the match is tomorrow morning. Can’t I just sleep?”

“Why?”

“We’ve discussed this. I’m going to bed at eleven o’clock, no later.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, it’s only six.”

“It’s also a Friday night. I don’t want to spend it studying.”

“Fine. What do you want to do, then?”

John was taken aback, partly because of Sherlock’s compliance and partly by his self-invitation. “Well, I don’t—I don’t know, I—”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You’d rather spend time with your friends.”

“Now, hang on. I never said that.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Out of nothing but spite, John glared and said, “No. I would love to do something with you, Sherlock. What did you have in mind?”

Sherlock smirked. “I was going to go into the Dark Forest to look for some clues as to why Polly Winston keeps sneaking out of her dormitory in the middle of the night. Her boyfriend asked me to,” he clarified at John’s expression.

“Why would he ask _you_ to spy on his girlfriend?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose he’s worried about competition, he hasn’t got the prettiest face on the grounds.”

“Yeah, that’s Irene Adler’s.”

“Can you shut it about Irene Adler?”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“So, coming?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock, it seems sort of...intrusive. Not to mention dangerous.”

“Sure, it’ll be dangerous. That’s why I need a _big, brave Gryffindor_ to accompany me,” Sherlock replied, his tone taking a mocking turn.

He turned and strode from the Entrance Hall, forcing John to follow at nearly a run, shaking his head and huffing his annoyance.

+++

“Sherlock, what are we doing out here?” John hissed, the light from his wand illuminating the path before them and glancing off stones and fallen leaves wet from that afternoon’s storm.

“I told you, we’re trying to figure out what Polly Winston is doing when she sneaks out of the castle.”

“She comes to the Dark Forest? Why on earth would she come to the _Dark Forest_ in the middle of the night?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, Polly Winston doesn’t go to the Dark Forest. No, she’s much too stupid for that to be the case. She’d be dead already.”

Sherlock stopped suddenly, and John nearly left him behind before noticing him kneeling close to the ground, studying something buried in leaves. “What is it?” John asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Sherlock’s gloved hand brushed aside the debris of autumn and slowly lifted a purple ribbon to John’s eye level. He studied it, sniffed it, twisted it in his fingers. Then he handed it to John and turned back toward the castle.

“What, is that it? A…a ribbon?” John said, jogging to keep up with Sherlock’s brisk, long gait.

“A hair ribbon, John. A purple hair ribbon.”

“So?”

“So ‘Polly Winston’ is a lot cleverer than she’s letting on.”

“Right….What?”

Sherlock rounded on John with a sigh. They were right at the edge of the Forest now, yards away from Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. “Do try to keep up, John.”

“Alright, now, hang on. You didn’t tell me anything about this bloody mystery you’re trying to solve. How is a purple hair ribbon supposed to be significant to me?”

“It’s the one thing that’s been missing for a few days. For the four years I’ve spent at Hogwarts, Polly Winston has worn a purple hair ribbon in her hair. Late last week she suddenly stopped. It’s why I took the case. I was curious as to why she would have parted with it so suddenly. Can you get Lestrade? He must be in Gryffindor Tower by now.”

John was startled almost beyond speech by the request. “Les-Lestrade?” he stuttered. “But…why?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I have to have _some_ sort of Prefect to answer to, and I’m certainly not answering to my brother.”

John raised an eyebrow. “ _I’m_ a Prefect. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“I usually just talk to Lestrade. He’s used to it. Besides, I don’t want to just snitch to you. I’d like for you to give a second opinion from time to time. It’s very valuable to me.”

“That’s sort of difficult when I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’ll learn in time. Now, shall I wait next to the painting of the Fat Lady all night or will you get Lestrade to come out and talk to me?”

John was taken aback by Sherlock’s intimate knowledge with the location of the Gryffindor common room, but he couldn’t say he was incredibly surprised. He shook his head in resignation. “Sure. Fine. But you’ll have to hide around the corner or the Fat Lady won’t even speak to me.”

“She is rather temperamental, isn’t she?”

Their walk back up to the castle was silent. The setting sun cast their shadows across the lawn and drew even more attention to the difference in height between the two boys.

All the way up to Gryffindor Tower, John wondered what he was getting himself into. Why had he followed this madman out to the Forest? What was Sherlock Holmes up to? Was this what he usually did for fun?

“Watson,” Sally Donovan said as he entered the common room. He’d made Sherlock wait in the nearest corridor. Part of him hoped he would get bored and leave. A frighteningly large part of him worried that he would.

“Hey, Donovan.”

“Where have you been? No one’s seen you since dinner.”

“Just…out and about.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Seb says he saw you going off with that Holmes maniac.”

“Maniac?” John repeated, startled.

Sally’s eyebrow arched in the way it usually did when she was questioning one of Greg’s instructions on the Quidditch pitch. “You don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?”

“He’s the kid who blew up Filch’s cat last year.”

“That was _him_?” John asked, astonished.

Sally nodded. “And that’s the least of it. Apparently he spends all his time in the dungeons experimenting with potions.”

John didn’t mention that that was something he was already well aware of.

She sighed. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing hanging around him, but I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea.”

John nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He began to walk away toward the armchair in which Greg was dozing off over his playbook, but Sally stopped him.

“One of these days he’s going to do something unforgivable and dangerous. Don’t get involved with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, thanks, Sally,” John replied, shrugging her hand off his own shoulder and making his way over to the armchair to shake Lestrade’s.

Greg jumped when John touched him. “Oh. Hey, John. Ready for the big match tomorrow?”

“I’d say so, yeah. What about you?”

He rubbed his eyes. “I will be as soon as I get some sleep.”

John hesitated. “Look, I’ve got a favor to ask you,” he said.

“Alright, and what would that be?”

“Could you follow me?”

He saw Lestrade’s eyebrows knit together as he stood, nodding. John led him from the common room, around the corner and into the little alcove where Sherlock was miraculously still perched on the windowsill.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned, putting a hand to his forehead. “I don’t have time for this.”

“I just need you to get McGonagall on board with this case.”

“Case? What case? Bloody hell, Sherlock, what have you done now?”

Sherlock held up the ribbon. “Polly Winston’s. Been missing for days, then turns up in the Forbidden Forest.”

“You went into the Forest again? My god, Sherlock, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“No, someone else is going to get themselves killed. By Polly Winston.”

“ _What_?” John and Greg shouted at the same time.

“No time to explain. Lestrade, tell McGonagall. She won’t listen to me after the…incident last year.”

Greg sighed. “Right. Come on, then,” he said after a long pause, then walked off in the direction of the headmistress’s office.

John looked at Sherlock, who smirked and followed, before following as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little late, but good news--due to the fact that my internet is finally being fixed after like five years, I shouldn't be late ever again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy fourth of July to all of my American friends. And in celebration of our independence, I post another chapter of...a crossover...of...two British franchises.
> 
> Also, [alovelypsychopath](http://alovelypsychopath.tumblr.com/) finished her illustration of [a scene from Chapter Two](http://holdencaulfieldin221b.tumblr.com/post/90125482811/alovelypsychopath-year-five-by-berity-baker-aka). So go check out that awesomeness.

“Bloody Sherlock Holmes,” John grumbled as he pulled on his robes. The trip to McGonagall’s office had somehow turned into a chase, which had somehow revealed that Polly Winston had been kidnapped and replaced by a Polyjuice-drinking psychopath. John had been a little lost, swept up in the thrill of it all. However, he would be lying if he said he didn't resent being awake as late as he was. He’d been relieved when Sherlock had managed to disarm the imposter, and he was grateful for the Ravenclaw’s quick skill when a Stunning Spell had been aimed at his head, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d been kept up until two in the morning being questioned by a Ministry official. 

By the time John made it down to the Great Hall the next morning, everyone knew what had happened. He’d expected it, really, but it was still disconcerting to have a hundred heads turn his way as soon as he entered the room. He glanced at the Ravenclaw table and saw Sherlock stirring his porridge with a sour look. 

“Hey, Watson,” Moran said when he sat down and dragged some eggs over onto his plate. 

“Morning, Seb,” John responded with a yawn. 

“You don’t look so good, mate. Sleep much?” 

“No, not really.” 

“That’s right, you were off with that Holmes bloke last night,” Moran said, and everyone in the vicinity turned towards them, as though hoping John would give confirmation to whatever ridiculous rumours had been flying around. 

“He’s been helping me with potions,” John replied, a bit more defensively than was probably necessary. 

It was at that moment that Sherlock Holmes himself decided to take a seat next to John, who nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, what are you doing here?” John was all too aware of the stares. 

“I just wanted to wish you good luck. Not that it matters, as luck is a completely false idea used to socially justify success and excuse failure.” 

“Thanks, Sherlock,” John replied after a moment, “but…why?” 

Sherlock looked confused. “We are...acquaintances now. I assumed that is what acquaintances do when one is to partake in a rather dangerous sporting activity.” 

“I suppose it is.” John nodded thoughtfully. He could feel the flush creeping into his cheeks as his fellow Gryffindors’ eyes bored into him. 

With a nod, Sherlock stood to return to the Ravenclaw table. 

“What the bloody hell was that?” Harry exclaimed. 

John just shook his head and shrugged. 

Harry grinned impishly, but said nothing, which alarmed John even more. 

+++ 

Lestrade called a time-out. When the whistle sounded, seven scarlet blurs came to a halt at one end of the pitch. 

“What is going on up there?” Greg hissed. 

“They’re playin’ dirty, you know how Slytherins are,” Donovan answered. 

“I don’t care how they’re playing, I care how  _you’re_  playing! You’re being sloppy.” 

“Well maybe if Watson could just get her act together and focus on catching the damn Snitch—” 

“Excuse me, why don’t  _you_  try to spot a fucking golden marble on a day like this?” Harry interjected. 

“You’re Seeker for a reason, right? Why don’t you just do your job?” 

“ _I am doing my job_!” 

John groaned and watched as Greg fruitlessly tried to calm the two girls. Eventually, he’d had enough. 

“SHUT UP!” he roared, and everyone was silent. “Can we all just shut up and listen to Greg, please? Sally, you’re being sloppy. Harry, you’re goofing off. Don’t you try to deny it, I saw you over by the Hufflepuffs!” 

Harry looked at her shoes. “Sorry, Greg. I’ll try and focus.” She shot a look at Sally. 

Everyone stood in silence for a moment. “Thank you, John,” Greg said. “Now can we please get back on the pitch and do what we’re supposed to be out there doing? Thank you.” 

The match pretty much kept in its downward spiral. Harry spent way too much time on one side of the pitch, while Sally dropped the Quaffle no less than four times and Mary began missing the goalposts completely. 

John was just about to give Harry her third proper warning when he felt something extremely warm near his wrist. He looked down to find his robes on fire. 

“Christ,” he muttered, trying to no avail to stifle the small flame. “ _Fuck_!” he shouted when a bit of the steadily growing fire licked at his arm and singed the hair there. 

He heard his name from somewhere below—probably Lestrade calling for some sort of emergency time-out due to one of his team being aflame. When John looked down, however, he found himself hovering about fifteen feet over a sea of generally neutrally-dressed Ravenclaws. 

“John!” he heard the familiar voice shout again, but this time he recognized it as that of his tutor. “John, can you fly a little closer?” 

The smoke now billowing from the arm of his robe made him woozy, and it was all he could do not to fall off the broom as he fulfilled the request. The sudden jet of water which hit him was barely noticed as everything went dark and quiet. 

+++ 

After a few long hours in the Hospital Wing, John was free to go, sporting fresh new skin on his right arm and breathing better than he ever remembered breathing. 

On his way to dinner, he found Sherlock waiting at the entrance to the dungeons and stopped. “Sherlock?” 

The boy looked up from his newest advanced potions book. His eyes fixed on the pink flesh of John’s arm before moving to his face. “Yes?” 

“Thanks,” John said. 

“What for?” 

“What fo—Christ, Sherlock, you saved my life!” 

“Wrong. Professor Longbottom saved your life, I merely put out the fire,” Sherlock scoffed, but John wasn’t having it. He raised an eyebrow. “Alright, that probably helped.” 

“Yeah, probably. Why did that happen, though? Why did I catch fire on the bloody Quidditch pitch?” 

“No idea.” 

Sherlock looked as though he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened and closed three times before finally, he said, “Do you want to work on Potions tonight?” 

“Sure.” As soon as he’d said it, John realized he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want to spend his Saturday night with this insane boy who kept trying to cram bits of information about his worst subject into his head rather hatefully. 

But he did. He wasn’t sure why, but he really did. 

“Sure,” he repeated more firmly. 

Sherlock smiled the most dazzling smile John had ever seen.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I'm finally fixing the notes, I'd like to point out that [alovelypsychopath](http://alovelypsychopath.tumblr.com/) has continued to be awesome and visually interpreted both chapters [three](http://holdencaulfieldin221b.tumblr.com/post/91615621541/alovelypsychopath-year-five-by-berity-baker-aka) and [four](http://holdencaulfieldin221b.tumblr.com/post/91716072566/alovelypsychopath-year-five-by-berity-baker-aka).

“Come, John. Louise Mortimer can’t find her owl anywhere. Says she last saw it three weeks ago.”

Those same three weeks had passed with one “case” after another. Sherlock had developed a tendency to assume John would participate, and although he hated himself for it, John couldn’t resist running around, helping the madman solve people’s problems.

Sherlock knew the castle and its passageways better than anyone. He’d dragged John to places he’d never even known existed, secret corridors and secluded spots well-suited for spying—among other things, he noted for future reference.

It was in one such spot that they had gotten themselves into a bit of an awkward situation, when John went in behind Sherlock before realizing that it wasn’t quite big enough to hold two adolescent wizards comfortably. Unfortunately, Sherlock had neglected to mention that the wall would re-solidify behind them, so they were stuck like that for a few moments, Sherlock reaching for his wand in pitch darkness and instead finding the front of John's trousers.

“Sorry. Sorry!” he’d said. It was the first time John had heard him sound so flustered. Once Sherlock had reached his wand and tapped the correct brick to open the wall back up, they'd both tumbled out, red-faced and swearing.

They had yet to return to that particular hiding spot.

“Are you sure, Sherlock? You know the match is tomorrow, right? We could both use some rest before, and I don’t know if—”

“Oh, hell, what does it matter?" he groaned. "Why are you so obsessed with this Quidditch nonsense?"

“Come on, Sherlock. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep all week. This is an important match.”

“What? Why?”

“Remember what happened last year? With Wilkes?”

Sherlock snorted in amusement. “Of course I do. Bloody moron had it coming. Why is this match such a big deal, though? That was last year.”

“Yeah, tell that to the rest of your House. They all think I play dirty.”

“Because they’re all idiots,” Sherlock replied.

“If the whole of Ravenclaw House are idiots, I’d hate to know what that makes me.”

“Well, you can’t be too stupid. Otherwise I would’ve discontinued this acquaintanceship weeks ago.”

“And wouldn’t that have been a bloody shame.” He smiled up at his friend, who reluctantly smiled back.

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed. “If you want to rest, we’ll rest. Meet me in the secret passageway on the third floor at ten 0’clock.”

“Ten?”

“Just trust me.”

+++

Although he had a bad feeling about it, John humoured Sherlock and discreetly set off for the third floor at a quarter to ten.

“John,” he heard shortly after he arrived. Sherlock was crouched in a nearby corner. His whisper startled John.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Ready?” Sherlock said.

“What are we doing?”

“Resting. Come on.”

Sherlock led John to the entrance to the astronomy tower and whispered, “Alohomora.”

“Sherlock!” John hissed. “It’s locked for a reason, you know.”

“Not a good one, or it would be more secure. Besides, if we get caught it’ll be worth the detention.”

And with that, he swept up the spiral staircase, leaving John no choice but to follow him.

“So?” John said when he stepped onto the platform.

“So.” Sherlock gestured vaguely at his own feet before deciding to skip the explanation and lying down on the stone floor.

John stared. “This is your big plan for rest? Getting really bloody uncomfortable at the top of the astronomy tower?”

“It’s not so bad.” Sherlock patted the spot next to him.

John sighed and humoured him further. “What are we doing, exactly?”

“Relaxing.”

“That would be a hell of a lot easier with a pillow.”

Sherlock produced his wand and what appeared to be a tiny bit of padding from within his robe. "Engorgio," he muttered, and the thing he held quickly grew into a mattress and even a blanket. John raised his eyebrows at the advanced magic and quickly scrambled for it, but Sherlock stayed where he was. “Aren’t you getting sore?” John asked, scooting to the edge of the mattress.

“No, I’m quite alright.”

“Suit yourself.”

After several moments of staring into the darkness, John looked over at Sherlock, his cheeks glowing by starlight, eyebrows knit together. “What am I meant to be doing exactly?”

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sherlock said, disregarding John’s question.

“The stars? Yes, I suppose they are.”

“In reality they’re just giant balls of gas, constantly burning. There’s nothing magical about them. Even Muggle science got that one right. But there's no denying they're beautiful.”

John didn’t know what to say. He’d never heard Sherlock speak that way, but he didn’t want him to stop.

“You...really think so?” Even he knew it was lame, and he’d figured it would irritate Sherlock immensely to be asked to repeat himself.

However, he simply said, “Yes. Beautiful,” before falling back into silence.

A few electric minutes passed before either of them spoke again. “So why is it that you go chasing all of these mysteries? Why do you risk being expelled?” John asked softly, more curious than accusatory.

“The thrill, John. I love the thrill of using my mind to its full potential, and the only way to get anywhere near that maximum in this castle is to solve a puzzle.”

“But there’s not always a case going on,” John pointed out. “There’re times you lock yourself away for a few hours with nobody asking for help at all.”

“I do experiments. Invent my own potions, discover the effect that poisons of all kinds have on people and how they affect their surroundings. Find antidotes which have yet to be found.”

“Sherlock, I hope you know what you’re doing. I don’t want to see you get blown up or anything like that.”

“I get bored quite easily, John.”

“I see. Is this boring?”

“No, actually,” Sherlock replied after a moment’s contemplation. “This is quite nice, I think.” Another minute passed before he said, “Have I told you about my reason for joining the Quidditch team?”

“I thought maybe it was because you’re a great Seeker,” John replied, startled.

“Actually, I was just bored one day. Happened to be the day of Seeker trials our third year.”

“Sherlock Holmes, are you telling me that the best Seeker this school has seen in decades started his career with an experiment?”

“Well, yes.”

John’s laughter echoed off the parapet.

Sherlock looked at him and smiled. “I’ve come to appreciate it, though. Not sure why, really.”

Silence fell again, and again it was John to break it. “But the cases—how did they start?”

“Remember that period in our first year when everyone was afraid of opening their mail?”

“Of course, the whole thing with the hexed letters.”

“That was all nonsensical panic, of course, our professors had it under control, checking that every piece of post was safe to pass on. Still, there was the fact of the hexes happening to begin with. Two students were sent to St. Mungo’s before anyone would listen to me. I solved it. Since then I’ve had a reputation as this powerhouse of deductive reasoning.”

“Because you’re a genius.”

“I know.”

Both of them grinned widely.

“Sherlock, there’s no way that’s comfortable,” John said. The words had barely left his mouth before Sherlock jumped to his feet and took the vacant spot on the mattress beside him.

Without another word, they lay there for hours, watching the stars and smiling stupidly to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a lovely two weeks, unless you're reading this after the first of August 2014. Regardless, I'll see you when the next chapter loads. Or...you know...uploads.


	6. Chapter 6

John groaned himself awake, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn before turning over and snuggling into the solid body next to him. He didn't immediately realize that a foreign body in his bed wasn't normal, but when the fact registered, his eyes snapped open and he jumped to his feet. “Sherlock!”

The other boy stirred at the sound of his name. “John,” he murmured with a smile. Then his brow furrowed, “John?” He opened his eyes, which almost immediately went completely wide. 

“Oh my god, Sherlock, we’re going to be late! And we…well, we…” John, in his panicked state, struggled for the right words, because although he knew nothing serious had happened the night before, it felt oddly like something had. 

“We fell asleep,” Sherlock supplied. 

“Yeah, and now we…Christ. Sherlock.” 

“Calm down, John, the match doesn’t start for another—” he looked at his watch “—twenty minutes.” 

“Jesus. Come on.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and ran, for once leading the way. 

“John, it’s just a match—” 

“It’s not just a match, Sherlock, it’s  _the_  match! Your team already hates me. It won’t do any good for my team to hate me, too.” 

When they reached the pitch, John sprinted toward the Gryffindor changing room without so much as a goodbye. 

“Where have you been?” Greg demanded as John scrambled into his scarlet robes. 

“Fell asleep on the astronomy tower last night.” 

“You—you what?” 

“I fell asleep on top of the astronomy tower last night. Won’t happen again.” 

Lestrade paused, eyeing him curiously. “Yeah, well. It better not.” He threw John his broom. “You might need this,” he added, then led the team from the room. 

+++

Had anyone told John at the beginning of this match that it would be successful, he wouldn’t have believed it. Now, though, with the score 80-10 in their favor, he had hope. His teammates were working together much more effectively than they had been even in training this year, and Harry was completely focused, circling above them, using the strategy that was best when competing with Sherlock Holmes’s sharp eyes—watching his every move, and duplicating it. John grinned up at the two of them languidly swirling through the air and watching the pitch before swinging his club to deflect a Bludger that was headed straight for Mary. 

The crowd erupted. “Another ten points for Gryffindor!” 

“What are you talking about? Foul! That was foul!” Sebastian Wilkes yelled. 

“It was not,” John muttered, still smiling brightly. 

He glanced back up and saw something that filled him with pride and made his athlete’s heart drop in disappointment at the same time. Sherlock was diving, his broom nearly perpendicular to the ground, with Harry right on his tail. 

He had to fight the urge not to laugh with delight at the sight of Sherlock in his element, bent over his broom, determined, tongue sticking out in concentration. 

As it was, the urge itself was shattered with the unmistakable crack of a Beater’s club. 

One instant, Sherlock was diving. The next, he was falling uncontrollably, sliding off the front of his broom, unconscious. 

John’s instincts kicked in. He had never flown so fast as he dove down and swept Sherlock out of the air. He gripped the handle of his broom tightly with one hand, his other arm wrapped around Sherlock’s limp form, and lowered himself to the ground. 

He laid Sherlock gingerly on the grass, and once it was clear that he was still breathing, turned to see everyone joining him in landing. A few yards away, he saw Greg shouting at Moran. “What were you thinking? You could’ve killed someone!” 

His face set, John marched over. “What the fuck just happened?” he demanded, and Moran took a step back at the danger in his voice. 

“Nothing. I just—” 

“You just hit a Bludger  _at him_ , didn’t you?” 

“I didn’t  _mean_  to hit it at him.” Seb’s smirk told John otherwise. 

“WHAT THE  _FUCK_  IS WRONG WITH YOU?” 

“John, calm down,” Lestrade said, surprise and concern softening his features. 

“ _Calm down?_   He could've  _died!_ ” John turned away from Moran and started to walk away before he did something rash. 

“I’m sorry I hit your new freak boyfriend,” Moran spat, now that he couldn’t see the murder in John’s eyes. 

John stopped and turned back slowly. “Excuse me?” 

“You ‘fell asleep on top of the astronomy tower’ with that weirdo, huh?” 

“John, don’t—” 

Greg’s warning went unheard as John’s fist connected with Moran’s nose. 

+++

Hours later, after a stern but ultimately pointless talking-to from the Headmistress, John found himself in a chair next to Mycroft Holmes, of all people. Both boys were completely silent, Mycroft eyeing John just as suspiciously as he had in the carriage at the beginning of the year, if not more so. 

“John Watson,” he said, and John tensed. 

“Yes?” 

Mycroft looked at him coldly. “What is your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?” 

“What?” 

“What do you intend to come of befriending my brother?” 

“I don’t—I don’t know, I…” John stammered. 

“Sherlock doesn’t make friends easily. He doesn’t normally care for people at all, much less people such as yourself.” 

“Excuse me,” John said indignantly. “What kind of person am I?” 

“An average one, at best.” 

“Look, I don’t know what you’re on about. Sherlock and I  _are_  friends.” 

Mycroft suddenly looked frustrated and confused, if only for a brief second. “Precisely. Why? What’s in it for you?” 

“He’s nice company.” 

“Really?” Mycroft replied skeptically. 

“Yes. I enjoy spending time with him,” John said firmly. 

Mycroft stared at him for a long time before standing and walking away. “Tell him I’m glad he’s alright, would you?” he said over his shoulder before leaving the hospital wing. 

John looked back down at Sherlock’s face, surrounded by wild, dark curls and half-covered by the bandage that was wrapped around his head. When he did, he saw Sherlock’s eyes open. 

“Your brother is such a prat.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll say.” He smiled. “Hello.” 

“Hey,” John responded, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Thanks for what you said. About being my friend.” 

“You were…awake?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock swallowed nervously. “Do you really like spending time with me?” 

John was taken aback by his tone. “Of course I do, you bloody idiot.” 

Sherlock nodded minutely and looked away. “Good. That’s…that’s good.” 

The two of them were quiet for a full minute. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Yes, John?” 

“I just wanted to say, I…I thought last night was nice, too.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, I…it was nice,” he repeated lamely. 

“Would you…would you like to do it again sometime?” Sherlock asked. 

“Absolutely. I mean, sure.” 

“Good.” 

“Right.” 

The silence returned. It was more than John could bear. Before he had a chance to change his mind, he stood, leaned down, and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. 

“Really?” Sherlock asked when John backed away. One of his eyebrows was raised in some sort of attempt to mask the twinkle of delight in his eyes with his typical snark. 

“I think so. Yes. Yes, really.” John’s face was still inches from Sherlock’s. His thumb stroked Sherlock’s cheekbone. 

“Good.” 

“Right.” 

They both smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, we're finally getting glimpses of the ridiculous fluff that makes up my entire existence.


	7. Chapter 7

“So…you’re going into Hogsmeade tomorrow?” John asked after a particularly entertaining study session in their usual empty dungeon classroom one night. As soon as John had finished packing up his books, Sherlock had turned to the cauldron of foul-smelling, blue-grey potion that he had brought with him. 

“Of course,” he replied, not even looking up from his newest experiment. 

“Well, I was wondering if you might…” 

“Yes.” 

“I haven’t finished yet.” 

“You were going to ask me to accompany you to the village.” 

“But I haven’t.” 

“The answer’s still yes.” 

John grinned and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Three Broomsticks?” 

“Yes.” 

John stepped forward and cautiously kissed Sherlock’s temple before walking to the door. “See you then.” 

“Mmm.” 

It was on his way to Gryffindor Tower that he spotted Sebastian Wilkes headed in the opposite direction. He rolled his eyes and avoided the older boy’s gaze, but it was a trend in John’s life that he was always noticed when he didn’t want to be. 

“Oi, Watson!” 

“Hello, Wilkes,” John responded in as polite and subordinate a tone as he could muster. 

“What’s it like knowing you can’t win a fair game?” 

“Wilkes, I’ve told you, I didn’t hit you on purpose,” John sighed, not optimistic at all about the path the conversation might take. 

“Well, perhaps it wasn’t  _your_  idea. Your whole team does seem to be crooked.” 

“Don’t you dare go pinning this on Greg. Moran just got a little out of his head.” 

“Right. Yeah.” 

“Seriously!” 

“Yeah. Oh, and by the way, that whole ‘swoop in and save Holmes’ bit was nauseating. Do save us all the trouble of losing our breakfast next time and skip the melodramatics.” 

John turned bright red. He bit his tongue; he wasn’t so sure Sherlock wanted the Captain of his team to know he was…whatever their relationship was…with a member of the Gryffindor team, especially the one who’d hospitalized him last year. “I saved his life.” He had to refrain from adding, “you bloody stupid git.” 

“Well, yeah. Couldn’t have blood on your team’s hands, could you?” 

John barely resisted punching him. “Wilkes, why don’t you just piss off? I’m through trying to apologize to you and your whole bloody House.” 

“Right, Watson. Just go run to your little friends and plot the next major  _accident_.” Sebastian nearly knocked him off his feet as he passed him and strutted down the corridor, clearly confident he’d sufficiently intimidated John. 

“Fuck you, Sebastian Wilkes,” John muttered as he approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. 

“My, would you look at the mouth on this one,” she complained. 

“Dirigible plum,” John said, ignoring her and stepping through the portrait hole as it opened. 

“Hello, John,” Greg greeted him cautiously, sensing John’s irritated tension. 

Running into Wilkes had completely ruined the mood established by his plan to spend time with Sherlock that weekend. “Hi, Greg,” he replied, slumping down into the chair next to him. 

“Everything alright? Bad score on an exam?” 

“No. I saw Wilkes on the way up here.” 

“Oh. What’d he say?” 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, though someday I’d like to hit that bloody self-righteous smirk right off his face.” 

“John.” He looked up at Greg’s solemn tone. “Is there anything else?” 

“What? Why?” 

“You were always able to ignore all of those Ravenclaws. Why are you getting so worked up about something someone as fundamentally stupid as Wilkes says?” 

John sighed. “Things are different now.” 

“Is it about Sherlock?” 

John nodded. 

“That shouldn’t change anything. If anything, that should make things better. He’s your friend despite what his teammates think of you.” 

Greg Lestrade, always the voice of reason. “I know.” 

“Unless it’s…something else.” 

John said nothing. 

“Oh. You’re…oh.” A little spark of realization lit behind Lestrade’s eyes. 

“Well, yeah. I guess. I mean…we kissed. Or, I kissed him. But he seemed okay with it. We’re going into Hogsmeade together.” 

“Right. Well. Alright. Wow.” 

“What?” 

“It’s just, I didn’t ever think Sherlock would ever find a good close friend, let alone….Well, I’ve known Sherlock Holmes for two years. He always comes to me when he needs some sort of authority figure, although his brother  _is_  Head Boy. I don’t know why he doesn’t just go to him instead and save me the trouble, but—” 

“He and Mycroft don’t get on. They’re worse than Harry and me, if you can believe it.” 

“Well, that’s what I mean. He’s not an easy person to get along with.” 

“Oh, trust me, I know that.” 

Greg smiled. “I suppose as long as you know it.” He yawned and stood. “I can’t say I’m surprised, really,” he said. “The way you reacted to Seb’s bloody stupid move should’ve been enough to tip me off.” 

John’s eyes widened. 

“Well, I’m off to bed. ’Night, John.” 

“Yeah. ’Night Greg.” 

+++

The next day couldn’t come quickly enough, John decided. He could barely sleep, and Moran snoring in the next bed wasn’t helping, as it just reminded him of that kiss in the hospital wing two weeks ago. They hadn’t kissed since. John had felt quite daring with that simple peck on the side of Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock definitely wasn’t your typical boy. Not that John had very extensive knowledge of how other boys reacted to physical affection. But if romantic Sherlock was anything like everyday Sherlock, John didn’t know what he might’ve thought about their kiss. He had no idea what to expect in Hogsmeade, or beyond that. 

_Listen to me_ , John thought.  _I sound_ _pathetic_. He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes, imagining meeting Sherlock at breakfast and walking up the drive with him, taking his hand as they passed through the gate. 

He didn’t know when it turned into a dream, but the next thing he knew, a sliver of sunlight woke him up through the curtains that he’d drawn around his four-poster. He was the first awake, but Moran was stirring, so he took as long as he dared to get dressed, throwing on jumper after jumper before making a face and discarding each. Finally, he settled on the one with the brown stripes and made it out the door just as he heard Seb getting out of bed. 

The castle was quiet, as it was nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. He’d expected to run into at least one person on his way to breakfast, but was starting to doubt it when all of a sudden an arm reached out from behind a tapestry and pulled him in. 

As unexpected as it was, relief flooded him when he felt familiar lips on his own, one hand on his shoulder and another softly cupping his cheek. 

“Well, hello.” He smiled as Sherlock backed away uncertainly. “Lovely to see you, too.” 

Sherlock smirked. “Breakfast?” 

“Sure, but…” 

“But?” 

“Where will we sit?” 

“Oh, we’re not going to the Great Hall.” 

“Then where are we going?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, simply led him by the hand down the hidden corridor, all the way downstairs, and down another corridor leading to a relatively boring painting of fruit in a bowl. When he tickled the pear, the painting swung forward, revealing a hole much like the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. 

Sherlock started to climb in, but was stopped by John’s hand on his arm. “What’s this?” 

“The kitchens,” Sherlock answered, grinning mischievously. 

“We’re breaking into the kitchens right before breakfast?” 

“Oh, relax, John. I’ve done it loads of times, the elves love me.” 

“The elves?” 

“House elves.” 

“Oh, right. Of course.” 

John followed Sherlock inside and was greeted by a particularly old elf with candy-floss hair protruding from his ears. “Oh, who does Mr. Holmes bring with him? Unusual.” 

“Kreacher, this is John Watson. He’s…a friend.” 

“Oh, wonderful! What should Kreacher fetch for John Watson?” 

John started when he realized he was being addressed directly. “Oh, um…I suppose…bacon would be nice.” 

“Then Kreacher shall fetch it right away, sir!” the elf rasped, and he scurried away with a quick salute. 

“Kreacher’s got quite a fondness for me,” Sherlock explained. “He’s very eager to please.” 

“Sherlock, how often do you come down here?” 

“Fairly regularly. Mycroft hates it, he’s been trying to catch me in the act for years.” 

John was suddenly beginning to realize he rarely saw Sherlock at mealtimes, but he’d assumed it was his way of avoiding people, going to meals early to skip the rush. 

Kreacher returned quickly with a heaping plate of bacon, and asked Sherlock if he would like anything. 

“No, thank you, Kreacher.” 

“You’re not eating?” John said, swallowing a mouthful of food as Kreacher scurried away. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“You don’t eat much, do you?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s just transport.” 

“What?” 

“My mind is what matters, everything else is transport. Digestion distracts me.” 

“You’re a nutter.” 

“But you like it.” 

“Fair enough. But you've got to eat sometime.” 

Sherlock ignored him. When John finished his plate, Sherlock took it and handed it to the nearest elf. “Ready?” 

“Sure,” John replied. He wondered whether he should reach for Sherlock’s hand or wait until they got into town. 

He decided on the latter and followed slightly behind Sherlock, not quite at his side. It was as though he couldn’t bring himself to equal his stride. 

“Sherlock,” he said as they walked, pulling their cloaks tight around them against the late autumn chill. 

“Yes, John?” 

“I…I don’t know.” John hadn’t any idea what he’d intended to say. If he was being honest with himself, he would’ve said that he’d just wanted to break the silence and hear Sherlock’s voice. 

Sherlock didn’t respond for a few moments. “John, I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“Wait, what?” John said, panicked at Sherlock’s tone. 

“I don’t know how to do this sort of thing. This…relationship thing.” 

John sighed with relief. “Is that what this is? A ‘relationship thing’?” 

Sherlock stopped momentarily to stare at him, before continuing walking and talking at the same time. “We’re going into the village together. That’s what I observe so-called ‘couples’ doing every time they have the chance. Sure, friends walk to Hogsmeade together, but you specifically asked me to. That implies a date. That, and the fact that you didn’t object to me kissing you earlier this morning.” 

“To be fair, I kissed you first.” 

“I’m serious, John. I can read all sorts of people, know who they are and where they’ve been at a glance, but I’m complete rubbish at understanding how they interact.” 

“Well,” John began slowly, working out the best way to explain things, “how would you describe a date?” 

“I don’t know, that’s the problem.” 

“I’ll tell you. It’s when two people who like each other go out and have fun.” 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” 

“Yes, Sherlock, that’s exactly what we’re doing.” 

“So it  _is_  a date.” 

“I hope so. You know for a genius, sometimes you can be unbelievably thick.” 

“I’m going on a date. We’re going on a date. I’m going on a date with John Watson.” 

John smiled at the befuddled look on Sherlock’s face. They reached the gate, and he reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “And I’m going on a date with Sherlock Holmes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've ever expressed how important comments are to me. I cherish them like I cherish my laptop and my apple juice.


	8. Chapter 8

“What about that one?” 

“Ministry worker. Sent here on official business with the Headmistress, probably something to do with the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Because he’s complete rubbish.” 

John laughed and took a sip from the mug in front of him. They had been in The Three Broomsticks for hours now, sitting and talking. Sherlock took a swig of his own butterbeer, coming away with foam across his lip. John had the urge to lick it off, but opted instead for pointing at him playfully. 

“What?” 

“You’ve got a little…” 

Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh.” Then he joined John in his giggling. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never had butterbeer,” John said. 

Sherlock shrugged. “I never cared.” 

“But now you do.” 

“Of course.” 

John grinned. “Why do you all of a sudden care about butterbeer?” 

“Because you like it. I thought I should try it.” 

John stared. “Because _I_  like it.” 

“Yes.” 

Slowly, a warm smile returned to John’s lips, and he slid his hand across the table to grasp Sherlock’s. Sherlock jumped a bit at his touch, but quickly adjusted and smiled in return. 

When they finally decided to get out and see the rest of the village, John suggested they go to Honeyduke’s. Hand in hand, they crossed the street and were met with the wonderful smells. The sugary air inside the shop seemed to cement their palms together. 

John didn’t think he’d ever seen Sherlock so gleeful. The boy looked around and took in all the familiar sights, displays of Sugar Quills and Chocolate Frogs and Licorice Wands. “What would you like?” 

Sherlock paused for a moment in his admiration of a nearby vat of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. “I’d like to get something for you. To celebrate.” 

“Celebrate?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Our date.” He dragged John to a wall of Chocolate Cauldrons. “Take your pick.” 

“My what?” 

“Pick something, on me.” 

“No, Sherlock, I…” 

“Come now, John, I’m trying to get you a present. It’s typical of a date, yes, to give flowers? Well, flowers seem inappropriate, since you don’t much care for them, so I’m telling you—pick out some candy and I’ll buy it for you.” 

John sighed. “Alright. But only if we share it up on the astronomy tower tonight.” 

“What you wish to do with your candy is entirely up to you,” Sherlock said. There was a twinkle in his eye not dissimilar to the one that had occurred when they’d broken into the kitchens that morning. 

John turned to the Chocolate Cauldrons and picked a package at random. On closer examination, they were filled with something called Party Punch. 

Sherlock paid for the chocolates and they made their way from the shop. “It’s nearly lunchtime,” John pointed out. “You must be hungry, you didn’t eat this morning.” 

“No, but I’m sure you are,” Sherlock replied. 

“Do you  _ever_  eat?” They turned onto a deserted side-street. 

“Not really.” 

“Why not?” 

“I told you, I’ve got better ways to occupy my time.” 

“But if you’re sitting around with me while I’m eating, then…couldn’t you use that time to eat something yourself?” 

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He didn’t let go of John’s hand, but his fingers twitched as though he might. “My main objective in sitting with you while you eat is…well, it’s to…” 

“Come on, Sherlock, spit it out.” 

“I just like watching you.” 

“You like watching me eat?” 

Sherlock finally dropped John’s hand so that both of his own could tangle in his hair. “No, I just—I like watching  _everything_  you do! I like watching all of your unique habits, like the way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you study something particularly difficult and the way you lick your lips when you smile and, yes, the way you chew your food primarily on the right side of your mouth. I just like watching…you. And I can’t very well do that when I’m distracted by things like  _eating_.” 

It wasn’t something that he thought about. It was just something that happened. John dropped the sweets he was holding and threw his arms around Sherlock. He attacked his mouth, tasting that morning’s butterbeer along with something he couldn’t identify but that was somehow uniquely Sherlock. He pressed the taller boy’s back to the nearest wall and relished the hands that now found their way to his hips, sliding his tongue along Sherlock’s in the best kiss they’d shared to date. 

“Third time’s the charm, I guess,” John murmured when he finally broke it. 

Sherlock’s laugh was contagious. “Lunch?” he said. 

“Are you going to eat?” 

“Probably not.” 

“Well, all the better to watch me, then.” 

“Besides, I think today’s hunger has just been sated quite nicely.” 

John’s cheeks went red. “Come on, you git.” 

“After you.” 

“Why?” 

“You know, your face isn’t the only thing I like to watch.” 

John’s eyes widened. Sherlock laughed again. 

+++ 

When they got back to the castle that evening, they made a plan to meet in the same third-floor passage as before as soon as John finished dinner. Then they reluctantly separated, Sherlock headed up the stairs with the Chocolate Cauldrons and John through the doors into the Great Hall. 

He found Lestrade alone at the end of the Gryffindor table. “Hey, Greg.” 

 “Well, hello. What’s got you so chuffed?” 

“I was in Hogsmeade today. With Sherlock.” 

“I suppose it went well?” 

“Very well.” 

“That’s good then. Congratulations. When should I book the reception hall?” 

“Oh, shut up,” John said, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “We’re meeting again after dinner.” 

“Where?” Lestrade asked, taken aback. 

“Um…” John hesitated. “The astronomy tower.” 

“John,” Greg began. 

“I know.” 

“You’re a Prefect, John!” 

“I know!” 

Greg shook his head. “Be careful.” 

“Come on, Greg, it’s not like we’re going to throw someone off it or—or—vandalize it…” 

“I know, it’s all in good fun. But if anyone catches you, sorry mate, I’m not sticking my neck out for that.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” John smirked. 

Something else seemed to occur to Greg. “I also don’t want to know what goes on up there. At all.” 

“Understood. Although I don’t think it’ll be anything you’d find too objectionable.” 

“Don’t care. Still don’t want to know.” 

John was halfway through his steak-and-kidney pie when he heard Harry’s voice. “What’s up, little brother?” she said, clapping him on the shoulder and helping herself to some chips. 

“Nothing, really.” He didn’t mind discussing Sherlock with Greg. His sister was another matter. 

“I saw you in Hogsmeade today.” 

He nearly dropped his fork. “You did?” 

“Yeah. Have fun?” 

He nodded cautiously. 

“It’s always great to get off the grounds for a while, isn’t it?” He chanced a look at her face and found just what he’d expected—a triumphant, delighted smirk. 

“Yeah, I’d say so,” he replied. 

“Any plans for this evening?” 

He put down his fork. “Alright, Harry. Fine. It was a date. I went on a date with Sherlock Holmes, and I’m meeting him again later. Don’t ask about it ever again.” 

“What? You were on a date? Well that would explain why I saw you throw him up against the wall like that.” 

John and Greg both gaped at her as she cackled. 

“I’m warning him about you,” John said bitterly. 

“That’s probably for the best. Wouldn’t want your crazy sister scaring him off.” 

“Yeah, like you have  _me_ ,” he shot back, standing and walking away. 

“Have fun!” she sang after him. 

He rolled his eyes and stormed off, up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a good mood already, but comments will sustain it through the long weekend. Have a good two weeks, lovelies, and in the meantime, [come hit me up on Tumblr](http://holdencaulfieldin221b.tumblr.com/) and I will be your Potterlock headcanon friend (or any other type of friend, if you want).
> 
> Also, I've added MorMor and Teddy Lupin to the tags. (!) That's to come in future chapters, though. You have a long way, grasshopper.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a LONG two weeks. I've missed you guys.

John ran into Sherlock on his way to the third floor and greeted him with a cautious kiss. “Hello, love.” 

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. “‘Love’?” 

“Not good?” 

“No, not really.” 

“Yeah, probably not.” John smiled and took his hand as they mounted the spiral staircase up to the stargazing platform. 

Sherlock produced the mattress as he had before and took a seat on it this time, right in the middle, with his legs stretched out in front of him. 

John raised an eyebrow. “And where d’you expect me to sit?” 

Sherlock shrugged, but he smirked as he spread his legs out a little wider. John took the hint and settled himself between them, leaned his back against Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. “Is this alright?” 

“Of course,” John replied. He craned his neck and turned to kiss Sherlock’s jaw, the only part of his face that he could reach. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments until Sherlock said quietly, “You said something earlier about your parents not being around anymore. What did you mean, exactly?” 

John swallowed and leaned back, forcing Sherlock down onto the mattress. “Why do you ask?” 

“I don’t want to risk being insensitive in the future. I’m not really known for my people skills, and although you seem to like me, I’d rather not have that changing because of my big mouth.” 

“Well…Harry and I were very young. It was, you know, right after Voldemort was killed.” 

“The Death Eater uprisings?” 

“Yeah,” John said with a sigh. 

“You weren’t even a year old.” 

“I know.” 

Sherlock paused, tightened his arms around John. “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright. They were Aurors. They were doing their best to keep the Death Eaters under control, but…one night it was really bad. You know the night—there were uprisings everywhere. They were trying to contain one of them in a Muggle village.” 

“I’m sorry, John.” 

“No, don’t be. Harry and I weren’t really old enough to remember them. We were sent to live with our great uncle. Funny guy, but he was a drunk. Dunno how Aunt Edith put up with him.” 

“I had an uncle who was a Death Eater,” Sherlock said hesitantly. 

“What?”

“Traichan Holmes. He was known to torture people beyond repair.” The level of disgust in Sherlock’s voice was something John had never heard before. “Countless people. He didn’t even torture them for information. He was the worst kind of Death Eater, one that tortured for fun.” 

“What happened to him?” 

“He died," Sherlock said curtly. 

“How?” 

It was Sherlock’s turn to settle into the position of storyteller with a sigh. “When I was nine years old, I still hadn’t shown any signs of magic. I threw tantrums all the time—” 

“Ha, imagine that.” 

“But none of them were any more dangerous than a few things being thrown at Mycroft’s head, with my hands. My parents were worried—they’d already decided I was probably a Squib. So had Uncle Traichan.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. It was my tenth birthday, and some of the family were over for dinner. We didn’t know Traichan had been a Death Eater. He hid it well for  _me_  not to have seen it. To us, he was just a bigoted old fool. But after a few drinks that night, his secrets started pouring out. No one knew what to do. We all just sat there as he went on, describing the last woman he tortured. She was a Muggle, married to a Ministry worker—Jenny Hooper.” 

“You mean…is that Molly Hooper’s mother?” 

“Yes. I’ve known Molly my whole life. She and her father live in the same town as my family. I couldn’t bear to let him keep talking like that, so I…I told him to shut up and piss off.” 

“Bet that went over well.” 

“Not exactly. He had his wand out, ready to curse me before my mother could even react, but…” He stopped, unsure of how to put it delicately. He decided on the simple truth. “His wand flew out of his hand, then the chandelier fell on him.” 

“Jesus.” 

“And that was the day we knew for sure that I would be getting my letter when the time came.” 

“Christ, Sherlock. That’s one hell of a birthday.” John turned halfway around and pressed a comforting kiss to Sherlock’s lips, then snuggled back into him again. 

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, never breaking the loop of his arms that encircled John. 

“So are we going to fall asleep up here again?” John asked with a laugh. 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock whispered, kissing the back of his neck. “If you’re amenable.” 

“Of course. No Quidditch match tomorrow.” 

“Aren’t you worried we’ll get caught?” 

“No. I’ve got better things to think about.” 

“Oh? Like what?” 

“Like”—John turned over in Sherlock’s arms so that they were nose-to-nose—“the fact that I’m alone under the stars with the most gorgeous student Hogwarts has ever seen.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Or the fact that his lips are mere inches from mine.” John took advantage of that and touched them softly with his own. “Or that I had a marvelous time with you today.” 

“It was mutual,” Sherlock said. 

“Well, that’s good to know.” 

John’s arms snaked around Sherlock’s waist and he burrowed his head against his chest. He felt him shiver. 

“You know…I’m a bit cold,” John said, and Sherlock immediately conjured up a blanket which fell over them. John smiled, his eyes closed. 

“Better?” 

“Much,” John answered when he felt Sherlock relax against him, no longer trembling. He barely registered the other boy’s hand massaging small circles between his shoulder blades. He could feel sleep coming, but as appealing as it was after a long week of late nights studying, he didn’t want to lose consciousness if he could help it. 

“John?” Sherlock said, his voice rumbling against John’s cheek. 

“Yeah?” he replied sleepily. 

“Are you asleep?” A small lisp cropped up as Sherlock drifted off. 

“No. Are you?” 

“Yes.” 

John’s laugh came out more as a contented sigh. “Then I suppose I can’t be too far behind.” Sherlock’s circles became more and more slack until they disappeared entirely. His breathing became heavy and lazily puffed at the hair onJohn’s crown. 

“Sherlock?” 

There was no answer. John held him tighter and finally fell asleep himself, his small grin buried in Sherlock’s shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, tragic backstory! Also, you know, temporal context!


	10. Chapter 10

“John Watson, I am very disappointed in you.” 

“I’m sorry, Professor, I just—” 

“I know, you didn’t mean any harm. But that doesn’t change the fact that you were out of bed after hours. Or that you broke into the astronomy tower. Honestly, I could have expected this from Mr. Holmes, but not from you. There’s a reason Professor McGonagall gave you that badge.” 

“I know, Professor Longbottom. I’m sorry.” 

Neville sighed. “You know I’m going to have to give you detention, yeah?” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“It’s a shame. So what’ll it be, I wonder?” 

“Perhaps you could give me an assignment like winning the next match, or—” 

“This isn’t a joke, John!” 

“Right. Sorry.” 

“Now, whatever task Sherlock gets, that’ll be yours too. I know I’m your Head of House, but honestly, I don’t know what to do with you. You never get into trouble. So I’ll have mercy on you and give you some company.” 

John nodded and turned toward the door. “Right. Thanks. Sorry, sir.” 

“Expect an owl tomorrow morning with the time and location of your detention.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

John left the office staring at the ground. He was startled when he rounded the corner and suddenly Sherlock’s lips were on his. “So? What’ve you got?” 

“Whatever you’ve got. Longbottom said he’d send me an owl tomorrow.” 

Both of their faces slowly broke out into grins. 

“So, does that mean it was worth it?” Sherlock asked. 

“Please, it would’ve been worth it if we  _hadn’t_  gotten detention together. Best night of sleep in my life.” 

“Me too.” 

“Well, right up until Anderson came up with Flitwick.” 

“Of course.” 

“I’ll never understand why McGonagall made him a Prefect.” 

“It’s because he’s a terrific snitch, there always needs to be at least one snitch in the ranks,” Sherlock said with a scowl that only served to make John laugh. 

“So…Sunday,” John said. 

“Well, yes. Yesterday was Saturday. As far as we can tell, tomorrow is Monday.” 

“Oi, no need for that. I was just asking what you wanted to do today.” 

“What do  _you_  want to do?” 

“Well, since cuddling on the astronomy tower is out of the question, perhaps we could work on something for class.” 

“I suppose that’s acceptable.” 

“Anything but Potions.” 

“But—” 

“No. How about we work on Patronuses? Mine’s not had a form at all. Maybe we can practice that.” 

Sherlock said nothing, simply shifted his weight from foot to foot. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Well, I…I haven’t been able to…” 

“You’ve never produced a Patronus? Not even any of the misty stuff?” 

Sherlock shook his head. 

John set his jaw, determined. “Come on,” he said, taking Sherlock by the hand and pulling him along to the seventh floor corridor, where he knew there would be a patch of blank wall with a secret that he’d discovered in his first year when he’d needed somewhere to hide from Harry and her friends as they tormented him. 

+++

“John, I don’t see what this is going to do. I can’t make one.” 

“I doubt that. You’re the most powerful wizard I know.” 

Sherlock blushed. “You must be a recluse.” 

“Hush. Now concentrate. Got a happy memory?” 

“Yeah, I…I think so.” 

“Okay. You know the words. Now, go.” 

Sherlock’s fingers were sweaty on his wand. “ _Expecto patronum_.” 

Nothing happened. Sherlock shoved his wand back into his pocket with such force that the fabric ripped. “See? I told you.” 

“Now, hang on. That was one try. What memory did you use?” 

“My tenth birthday.” 

John stared at him. “How on  _earth_  is that ‘happy’?” 

“Well, I found out I wasn’t a Squib, for one.” 

“No, there’s too much negativity surrounding that for it to be a good one. Pick another.” 

“Fine.” 

“Got it?” 

Sherlock nodded and drew his wand once more. 

“Now, concentrate. And go.” 

“ _Expecto patronum_ ,” he whispered, eyes closed. After a moment, he opened one. “Did it work?” 

“There was a bit of silver round the tip of your wand,” John supplied cautiously. 

“Forget it.” 

“Sherlock, I know you hate not being able to do things, but that’s why you can’t give up now!” John grabbed his wrist before his wand made it to his pocket again. “Maybe you just need a stronger memory. What were you thinking of this time?” 

Sherlock sighed. “One time when we were kids I tied Mycroft’s cat to one of the Knight Bus’s axles.” 

“You did  _what_?” John said, resisting the urge to laugh. 

“It was an experiment! Anyway, I was thinking of the look on his face when he saw Gingerwald being dragged along behind through the window. I hadn’t meant for the cat to get hurt, but…” 

“Sherlock, I…don’t even know what to say to that.” 

“Putting Mycroft under stress was probably the happiest I felt in my childhood, so there’s no point in trying again if that didn’t work.” 

“Hold on. Please, just try one more time. For me.” 

“What? Why do you care if I can produce a Patronus or not?” 

“Well, for one, I don’t want you getting attacked by a Dementor.” 

They looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock responded, “Fair point.” 

“Alright. So will you try again?” 

“I don’t know, John, I—” 

“For me, remember?” John pecked him on the cheek. 

Sherlock squinted, thinking. “Yes. Fine. You win.” 

“Good. Now. Memory?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good memory?” 

“Yes.” 

“You sure?” 

“Could you shut up now?” 

“Yes, fine. Sorry.” 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, focusing as hard as he could on the happiest he could ever remember feeling. “ _Expecto patronum_ ,” he said, even more softly than before. 

At the same time, he heard John shout and saw a silver light through his eyelids. He smiled, keeping them closed. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. 

“Sherlock!” 

Now he could just keep working on it, maybe get it to take shape— 

“Sherlock, you have to see this!” 

Sherlock opened his eyes. What he saw was the last thing he expected to see. 

A gleaming, silver swarm of bees swooped about the room, filled every corner, silently zipping about with a determined air. They surrounded them, the entire chamber shining with the light of a million little spots of energy. Sherlock’s jaw dropped as John spun around, laughing and twirling through the silver cloud. It illuminated every curve of his face, made his eyes sparkle like they had under the stars. Sherlock gasped before chasing him down and holding him in a tight embrace, practically lifting him off his feet. 

“I told you you could do it,” John murmured in his ear. 

Tears leaked from Sherlock’s eyes as the glow of his Patronus brightened. “I know.” 

“They’re beautiful,” John continued, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder and marveling at the bees even as Sherlock’s arms crushed his middle. 

Suddenly, Sherlock drew away, holding John at arm’s length as the swarm slowly faded. 

“It’s you,” Sherlock said excitedly. 

John’s brow furrowed, amused. “Of course it’s me, you git, I’ve been here the whole time—” 

“No, I mean—it’s you. You did this.” He kissed him roughly, quickly. “I thought of you.” 

John beamed even brighter than the bees had shone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple things.
> 
> 1\. I feel I should explain my headcanon behind Patronuses, and why students would be learning them in their fifth year. When Voldemort fell, the dementors formerly guarding Azkaban went rogue. As this story occurs after the Battle of Hogwarts, dementors are one of the most dangerous threats to wizards and Muggles alike, and so the Patronus Charm has become a part of most wizarding schools' curricula, despite the advanced nature of the spell.
> 
> 2\. I did it a while ago, but [I did an angsty Johnlock Reichenfeel-y 'Hey There, Delilah' rewrite](http://holdencaulfieldin221b.tumblr.com/post/93422355866/hey-there-john-watson-a-johnlock-y-rewrite-of), if you haven't heard it. It's sort of my pride and joy. (Shameless self-promo.)
> 
> 3\. If you haven't noticed, [holmesexualtension](http://holmesexualtension.tumblr.com/) drew me [a thing](http://holdencaulfieldin221b.tumblr.com/post/97366049571/jimmyjamms-john-groaned-himself-awake) and so I wrote her [a thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2360168) in return. It's in this 'verse, but a year in the future is where I place it.
> 
> 4\. Have a lovely two weeks, darlings! I will be spending it grueling under stage lights and possibly doing drunken improv.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ya go, a day early. :)

It always amazed John how quickly news travelled in such a big castle, but as it was, his relationship with Sherlock was common knowledge by Monday morning. He supposed, with such a fast turn-around, the rumours were inevitable. 

Clara stopped him right before lunch to congratulate him and ask if it was true that he’d snuck into Ravenclaw Tower. 

Harry grinned mischievously at him across the table when he firmly denied everything she insinuated about what had happened on the astronomy tower. 

Mycroft shot him his usual suspicious look when John passed him on his way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Irene Adler glanced at him with a knowing smile as he descended the stairs to his Potions lesson. 

By far the most confusing thing that arose from the whole school’s revelation that Sherlock and John were an item was a look he got from one of the Slytherin sixth-years. It was an appraising look, calm and calculating, with a glint of mischief near the surface. If it hadn’t been for the feeling it gave him, John might not have noticed the boy standing there at all. 

Later that afternoon, between lessons and dinner, John met Sherlock in one of their secret passageways and, after quite a long and silent “hello,” told him about the mysterious and somewhat frightening encounter with the stranger. 

“And he just  _looked_  at you?” 

“Yeah. It was weird.” 

Sherlock stopped to think before asking, “What did he look like?” 

“Well, he…honestly, I don’t really remember. I just remember the way he looked at me. Like I was some sort of…solution.” 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” he said. 

“What?” 

“It’s him.” 

“Who? What him?” 

“John, there’s something I have to tell you. I’ve been working on a…case…for Mycroft.” He paused. “There’s something going on at Hogwarts, something not so good.” 

John looked at Sherlock questioningly. 

“Something’s happening with the teachers,” Sherlock went on, seeming to struggle with the words. “They’re not acting quite normally. Even some of the students are acting…odd. Polly Winston, for instance.” 

“What does this have to do with Polly Winston?” 

“Everything. Or nothing. I don’t know. All I know is that there are too many strange things going on here to take any of them for granted. Think about it, John—how common are Polyjuice impersonations of students?” 

“Not very.” 

“Precisely. That, in combination with some of the things Mycroft has had me take a look at this term, is enough to make me think that a stranger giving you odd looks is no coincidence.” Sherlock looked at him, his eyes intense. “Just look out.” 

“What? Sherlock, I need more information than that. What am I looking out for?” 

Sherlock kissed him quickly before answering, “Yourself.” 

+++

“Sherlock, please. I’ve taken all I can handle. Can’t we just call it a night?” 

John was regretting ever agreeing to this. His fingers ached from the repeated chopping of roots and multiple burns from the repeatedly failed potion which Sherlock was supposed to be helping him concoct. Sherlock had, in reality, simply sat back and watched John fail, becoming frustrated and walking from the room multiple times as the thick liquid in the cauldron turned the wrong shade of brown or too bright a shade of pink. 

“Fine. But you are going to get awful marks on that exam.” 

“I’m oddly okay with that as long as it means I get to keep my extremities intact.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I suppose that’s fairly important to me as well,” he said, guiding John’s hands to his hips and letting himself be pulled in. 

“Right. Your hands may look beautiful all scarred and stained, but I don’t think I can pull it off quite as well.” John smiled. “And I need sleep. It’s late, let’s go.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed again, grumpily picking up his bag and clearing the cauldron with a sweep of his wand. 

“Sherlock, I’ll see you tomorrow,” John said, putting a consoling arm around him. 

“I know.” 

“And perhaps we can skip the studying and go straight to the fifth-floor tapestry, huh?” John suggested. 

Sherlock nodded, still sore. 

“Oh, come on Sherlock. We can’t all be mad enough to ignore sleep.” 

“I get it. Go. I’ll finish cleaning up here.” 

John sighed. Life was difficult when your boyfriend was a petulant child. “Good night, Sherlock.” 

“Good night, John,” Sherlock replied, his back to him. 

John began the trek up to Gryffindor tower from the dungeons, wishing he could take Sherlock with him. But even without school rules getting in his way, there was Moran, who he still didn’t trust completely. 

He was just about to turn onto the next landing when he felt himself being dragged into an empty classroom. 

+++

Sherlock spent most of the walk up to Ravenclaw Tower contemplating ways to get into the Gryffindor common room. Even if he wasn’t going to do it tonight, it was good to have ideas for future reference. By the time the knocker was asking him some ridiculous question about swallows, he had already come up with seven different plans, ranging from climbing in a window to camouflaging himself with a Disillusionment Charm. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” Anderson said as he entered the common room. 

“Piss off, Anderson,” he replied, passing him by without a glance. 

In his room, Sherlock wondered whether John was asleep, and if so, what he was dreaming of. He hoped it was him. 

There was a tap on the window. Startled, Sherlock walked over and opened it, letting a sleek black-and-white magpie through. It swept across the room and perched itself at the foot of his own bed, dropping a tiny scroll from its beak. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow and unrolled it. 

“ _John Watson is definitely in danger._ ” 

His eyes went wide and he turned it over, desperate for some sort of clue as to what this meant, but found nothing but black marks where the ink from the inside had bled through. 

His mind went into overdrive as he pulled on his cloak.  _Paper? Ordinary parchment. Torn along one edge, bottom of the page. Damp, frost around the edges. Came from somewhere wet. Tinted green. Algae?_  

He sniffed the strip of paper.  _Algae._  

“The Black Lake,” he said to himself, and he was out the door in a flash. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Anderson demanded as Sherlock flew through the common room. 

“Out!” Sherlock barked, ignoring the scandalized look on the boy’s face. 

He made it down the stairs in record time, crossed the grounds at breakneck speed. 

When he reached the bank of the Lake, he looked around frantically, but he saw nothing. 

“Sherlock,” he heard from a few yards out. He looked down and saw a blond head peeking out of the dark water. 

“John! What’s going on?” 

“I’m—” John was cut off when a wave broke over his face. As soon as it cleared, he coughed violently. “I’m stuck.” 

Sherlock studied his position and determined that he was tied to something that slowly pulled him further into the lake. He waded in, ignoring the chill as his cloak billowed over the water, and felt for the ropes that he knew must be there, reaching for his wand. “Hold on, I’ll get you out of there.” 

“Sherlock Holmes. It’s about time we met.” 

Sherlock paused and looked up. 

“Jim Moriarty. Hi.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Moriarty?” 

“Now, now, Sherlock, I’d say that’s fairly obvious, considering I've just, you know...introduced myself." 

“Sherlock,” John gurgled from just below the surface, and he was quickly pulled back into his task. 

“Oh, Sherlock, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Those ropes are the only thing keeping him up.” 

Sherlock felt beneath the water, and sure enough, there was something feeling suspiciously like a tentacle wrapped around John’s ankle, as well as slippery rope bound tightly around his waist. 

“The giant squid?” 

“Of course. A good friend of mine. Anyway, I’ve got the upper hand, here, Sherlock. There’s no way for you to get him out of there without me.” 

John was beginning to struggle against his bindings, both living and not. 

“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock said firmly. 

“Back off. Just do us both a favor and back off.” 

“What if I don’t?” 

“I could just kill him now, you know. Tell Seb to cut the ropes.” 

“No!” Sherlock said. “No, I’ll…I’ll back off.” 

Moriarty smiled. “Good. Tell Mycroft he’s nosing into business that ought to be left alone.” 

 He turned to walk away. With a flick of his wand, John’s legs were free to kick and thrash suddenly against Sherlock’s side, forcing him to look away from the boy he’d been investigating for weeks without even knowing his name. 

“John, calm down. It’s over.” 

“No it bloody well is not. You let that maniac go,” John responded as Sherlock cut him free of the ropes. They drifted across the surface of the dark water like lazy serpents. 

“John, is that the boy from earlier?” 

John sighed. “Yeah.” 

“His name is Moriarty. I’ll tell you more about him tomorrow. For now, you should get some rest.” 

“Did he say Seb? As in Moran? Moran’s in on this?” 

Sherlock hesitated. “Yes, I think so. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Although, to be quite honest, it makes his attempt to kill me on the Quidditch pitch a bit…clearer.” 

“I don’t know if I want to go get some sleep, then. Bloody hell, I’ve been sleeping the next bed over from a fucking psychopath.” 

“You could…I mean, we…you could sleep with me.” 

“Sherlock, we already have a detention we haven’t done. Let’s not go adding to that, yeah?” 

“But John…do you really want to spend the night in the same room with a boy who was almost an accessory to your murder?” 

John stared at him. “Yes, alright, let’s go,” he murmured, dragging Sherlock by the hand back up to the castle and shivering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot. Plot. Plot. Plot.
> 
> (You guys stopped leaving comments. What happened? It makes me sad. With such a momentous moment as the Moriarty reveal, I better get to see a reaction to that...)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm procrastinating writing an essay so have the next chapter a little early!

By the time they reached the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower, McGonagall was there speaking with Anderson. 

"Anderson!" Sherlock shouted angrily, looking as though he wanted to wring the boy's neck. 

"Oh, hello, Sherlock," he replied, a smug smile stretching his face as it so naturally did. 

"Mr. Holmes," Professor McGonagall began, but then she saw John slightly behind him. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. "Mr. Watson! What on earth are  you doing up here?" 

"Oh, I…I’m sorry, professor, I was just…" 

"And why are you both soaking wet?" 

"Well, you see, I was—" 

"We had a run-in with the giant squid," Sherlock cut across him. 

McGonagall looked startled. "You did?" 

"Yes." 

"How?" 

"It’s a long story, and rather one I’d like to recount to you in private." He glanced pointedly at Anderson. 

McGonagall nodded. "Very well, then. I shall speak with you later. In the meantime"—she glanced at the two of them, then the door with its eagle-shaped knocker, then back—"please get yourselves to the hospital wing. A run-in with the giant squid is hardly something that should go unchecked." 

Sherlock glanced smugly over his shoulder as they walked away. Anderson stared after them in frustration and shock. 

+++ 

Although when they reached the hospital wing an irritable Madam Pomfrey, after giving them each a quick once-over and deciding nothing vital was missing or damaged, assigned them two separate beds, Sherlock almost immediately commandeered half of John’s when she left the ward. 

"Sherlock, you know Madam Pomfrey’ll have our heads if she comes in here tomorrow morning and finds you over here." 

"John, if you think I care about the rules, by all means keep talking, but I assure you, I’d rather you just save the trouble of trying to convince me and get some sleep." 

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Seriously, Sherlock, we’ve already got one detention," he protested weakly. 

"Make that two." 

Both their heads whipped around at McGonagall’s sudden entrance. John nearly shoved Sherlock to the floor, but he caught himself on the waistband of John’s fresh pyjama bottoms. John glared at him. He shrugged. 

"Gentlemen, I’ve spoken to your Heads of House. They’ve offered a simple extension of your previous detention. Now, Mr. Holmes—you’ve got my undivided attention. Why is it that you were out of bed in the first place?" 

"Professor, I would really like to speak to you alone. In the morning." 

"Holmes, I believe that is quite enough. Mr. Watson has been dragged into whatever nonsense your brother has decided to let you inquire upon. I feel it is in his best interest that he listens to whatever you have to say on the matter." 

Without really meaning to, John nodded. He was curious about this Moriarty bloke, most importantly why he’d kidnapped him and tried to feed him to the giant squid. "Yeah. Sherlock, what’s going on?" 

Sherlock sighed and didn’t even attempt to keep from glaring at the headmistress. "Jim Moriarty." 

"What?"

"Jim Moriarty. He’s a sixth year Slytherin student. He’s behind all this. I don’t know why, or how really, but—" 

"You mean to say that James Moriarty is…what is he doing exactly?" 

"I don’t know what he’s doing, that’s the problem. Aside from kidnapping John, of course." 

"Well, I’ll see to it that Mr. Moriarty is—" 

"No!" 

McGonagall had turned to walk away, but Sherlock’s panicked tone made her turn back. "Mr. Holmes, if a student is kidnapping other students, something needs to be done." 

"I’ll let you take care of him, Professor, I promise, just—let me find out what he’s up to first. I don’t know the extent of it, and he could be behind all sorts of things. If you let him know you're onto him, he may cut all of those ties. He clearly doesn't like getting his hands dirty, so there can't be a lot of evidence out there to say he's behind some things, but there's a reason my brother put me on this case. Please, just…let me find that evidence." 

McGonagall stared at him for a long while. He stared back at her with something in his eyes that John had never seen before. It was almost a plea, but Sherlock Holmes didn’t truly plead. Finally, her head tilted back and she glanced at John before replying. "Alright. But be careful. If anything like this happens again, the matter—this 'case'—is out of your hands, Mr. Holmes, and into mine." She turned back to the door and was halfway out of the room when she added, "And don’t do anything that might get you another detention tonight, gentlemen. Good night." 

John glanced at Sherlock, still lying beside him, his finger still hooked into the elastic of John’s pyjamas. He blushed. 

Sherlock turned to face him and simply nestled against him, nuzzling his head into the space under his chin. When he spoke, his voice rumbled through John’s chest. 

"John?"

"Hm?" 

"I’m sorry I involved you in this. I never meant for you to get in the middle of this." 

"I’m fine, Sherlock." 

"I know, but…perhaps this was a bad idea." 

"What?"

" _This_. You and me." 

"Why on earth would you say that?" 

"I just don’t want you to end up hurt, that’s all." 

John pulled Sherlock’s face up to his, kissed him on the cheek. "Sherlock, let me ask you something. Will separating us change the way you feel about me? Will it make you care for me any less?" 

"What? No, of course not." 

"Then there’s no point. That Moriarty bloke knows what I mean to you, and that’s information you’re never going to be able to get back out of his head. So if we were to stop kissing and working on Potions and going on dates, would it even matter? He’d still use me, you’d just be further away and it would be harder to know when something’s wrong. So do us both a favor and shut up, please." 

Sherlock smiled sadly and pulled John closer. "Fine. Just as long as you don’t mind." 

"Mind? Why the fuck would I mind? I’ve got the most brilliant, most attractive boyfriend I could possibly have, not to mention trouble always seems to find him, so I’m never bored." 

"You really think I’m physically attractive?" 

"Seriously? Of all that, t _hat’s_  what you hear?" 

"Oh, I already know I’m brilliant, and that you’re particularly attracted to dangerous situations, but I’m ‘attractive’? Really?" 

"Bloody—" John began before cutting himself off with a searing kiss. "Of course, idiot." 

"Well, that’s good. Wouldn’t want the attraction to be too one-sided." Sherlock smirked at his own words and nipped at John’s ear lobe. He drew his knee up between John’s legs, slowly pressing himself against him. 

"Sher—Sherlock, let’s not do this here, please," John whispered, suddenly aware of where they were and how far he was actually willing to take things in such a public area. 

"We’re the only ones here, John." 

"Yeah, but Madam Pomfrey is just in her office, and what if McGonagall comes back? Or what if—" 

Sherlock cut him off with a dramatic sigh before rolling over onto his back. "Fine," he said, expressing his disappointment rather more than was necessary. After all, John hadn’t  _wanted_ him to stop, he just had to be the voice of reason. 

He snaked his arms around Sherlock. "If it’s any consolation, I’m not completely opposed to the idea."

"Really?" Sherlock’s voice was beginning to enter the stage of sleepy slurs and rough grogginess. 

"No. If we went on another date, perhaps. They do say the third date’s the time for that," John joked. 

"Third? That means  _two more_ ," Sherlock groaned dismally, reminiscent of a child being told that his holiday had been pushed back a week. 

"One," John corrected, grinning. 

"One? John, three doesn’t come after one, I trust you know that. We’ve only been on one date." 

John shook his head. "Two. The astronomy tower. That first time." 

"What?" 

"Most people would say it doesn’t count, but I think it does. We did sleep together." 

Sherlock turned his head on the pillow and smirked at him. "John Watson, are you just  _looking_  for socially acceptable reasons to shag me?" 

"Please, I don’t need 'socially acceptable.'" 

Sherlock made to turn over again, but one glance at the look on his face, and John knew better than to let him. He pressed a hand to his chest and forced him back down. "No, Sherlock, not now. If you try anything again, I  _will_  kick you out of this bed." 

Sherlock started to protest, but instead sighed and pressed a chaste kiss to John’s temple. "Good night, John."

"Night, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos make me smirk and blush like Sherlock when John says 'Brilliant,' and comments make me feel like murder-Christmas is early.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, early again!

As the Christmas holidays drew nearer, John did everything he could to distract himself from that fact. He focused on keeping up with his schoolwork and practiced brewing potions, and when that didn’t work, put in a request with McGonagall and the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher to reinstate the Dueling Club that had disbanded a few years before. 

“Why on earth would you want to start up the Dueling Club?” Harry asked him that night when he’d mentioned it in front of the common room fire. 

“Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Mary said. She was polishing her wand rather more than was necessary, as though if she were to leave fingerprints she would be betraying its trust. “Just because the most powerful Dark wizard in history is dead doesn’t mean evil itself is.” 

John nodded. “Couldn’t have put it better myself.” 

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with not having to think about going home for the holidays, would it?” Harry said. 

John didn’t say anything. She bloody well knew it did. “I just wanted to put together the club to spend some time practicing defense, that’s all.” 

Harry sighed. “You know, perhaps it’s not the best time to mention it, but I’m staying at Clara’s over Christmas.” 

John looked up at her. Honestly, he couldn’t care less where Harry went. The issue was enduring their extended family without someone his age with remotely the same interests—which, in all fairness, were pretty much limited to Quidditch even when it came to Harry. On one hand, it would be nice not to have her there trying to sneak the Firewhisky from their uncle’s cupboard. On the other, that meant he wouldn’t have her there to deflect the constant questions about school and romantic prospects. 

“Sorry,” she said. “She invited me, and I just…” 

“No, it’s fine,” John said, returning his attention to his Charms essay. 

“You could ask Sherlock,” she suggested. 

“Ask him what?” 

“To spend Christmas with you.” 

He shook his head and grimaced. “I’m not going to do that, Harry.” 

“Why not?” 

“When has Aunt Edith appreciated company under the age of fifty?” 

“Fair point. But…I don’t know. Maybe he’ll ask you.” 

John snorted. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, I’m going to bed.” He stood and gathered his books, regretting the decision to work on Charms instead of going down to the dungeons for a Potions session with Sherlock. 

He paused briefly on the stairs and shook his head. He never would have missed an opportunity to turn down Potions before he met Sherlock. Christ, had Sherlock turned his life upside-down. 

When he walked into the dormitory, he unconsciously glanced at Moran’s bed, just as he had every night since he’d been kidnapped. Increasingly often, Moran didn’t even make it back to bed. John hadn’t thought much of it when the behaviour began at the start of term, but it now forced him into a constant state of panic as to when his former friend might come up. He rarely got any sleep anymore, for fear of the psychopath coming in late while he was vulnerable. 

He hadn’t caught a single glimpse of Moriarty since that night, and whenever he spoke of him to Sherlock, the boy clammed up and told him to drop the subject. He wished Sherlock would talk to him about the case—he hated being in the dark almost as much as Sherlock did, although Sherlock would have scoffed at the thought. Still, he limited his mentions of Moriarty to once every few days, because even though it was alright when it was unintentional, he couldn’t stand Sherlock  _actively_  ignoring him for any period of time, however short it may be. 

He sighed, pulled on his pyjamas, and crawled beneath the covers. Perhaps he’d ask Sherlock about Moriarty again in the morning. 

+++

“Is that Amortentia I smell?” John put his bag down on the table next to Sherlock’s cauldron and leaned into his shoulder. 

“No.” 

“Hmm. Must just be you, then.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth perked up as John nosed at the skin over his pulse point. “Singed hair,” he murmured, kissing once, then again with “honey,” once more with “and ink.” His hands found Sherlock’s hips. “So, if it’s not a love potion, what  _are_  you working on?” 

“I’m trying to find a simpler antidote to the Draught of Living Death. I’m so close. The bisnap beans are just giving me a bit of—” 

Without so much as a bubbly warning, the substance inside the cauldron exploded. Sherlock, almost on impulse it seemed, pushed John behind him. The smoke was thick and brown, and smelt of rotten cabbage. 

Slowly, Sherlock turned around, and John didn’t even attempt to stifle his laughter. 

Sherlock’s entire face, contorted into a disgusted grimace, was covered in orange goo; even locks of his hair along his forehead and around his ears were coated in the stuff. He wiped the goop from his eyes very deliberately and opened them. 

“You think this is funny?” 

“No, I’m sorry, I—oh, bloody hell, don’t make that face, it’s too much to take.” John couldn’t contain himself. Sherlock had narrowed his eyes in such a way that he somehow achieved an even more ridiculous picture than before, and John was doubled over with mirth. 

The next thing he knew, something wet slapped the side of his head, and he looked up just in time to see Sherlock fling another handful of orange slime right at his face. 

He smiled at him dangerously as the second blow oozed down his right cheek. “Oh, Sherlock, do you know what you’re doing?” Then he pounced on him, pinning him against the wall and attaching his lips to the closest bit of him that wasn’t orange, which happened to be the spot where his neck met his shoulder, which had been protected by his shirt, always unbuttoned at the first two if he could get away with it. 

“Don’t you want to know if this is toxic?” 

John’s head shot up in alarm, and he asked, “Is it?”  

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied with a grin. “It shouldn’t be, at least. May taste foul, though,” he went on, shoving John off of him, “so I’d rather we had a wash before we continue.” 

“Right. Because I’m not putting my mouth anywhere near that stuff.” 

Sherlock pulled out his wand, pointing it at John’s face. 

“What are you doing?” John demanded. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Getting this off your face.” 

“Er, Sherlock, I’d rather we just used soap and water.” 

“Why? We’re wizards.” 

“I’d rather avoid accidents, yeah?” 

“You don’t trust me?” 

Taken aback by his tone, John stammered, “Well, of course I do, Sherlock.” 

“Then you’ve nothing to be afraid of.” 

That was not entirely true, John thought. He had quite a bit to be afraid of, considering how much Sherlock tended to underestimate the power behind every spell he cast. He was always zapping books from their shelves and causing small explosions as opposed to accomplishing the minor tasks he set out to perform. There was no doubt of his intellect, or his control when it came to particularly advanced magic, but the simple things were always overdone to the point of danger. John didn’t think Sherlock was even aware of the way a casual flick of his wand could send chairs flying across the room. 

Still, he weighed the risks involved with arguing further against the alternative of letting Sherlock magically wipe the mess away and decided that at worst a trip to the hospital wing might give him fair opportunity to shoot a rare “told-you-so” glare at Sherlock Holmes. 

“Get on with it, then.” 

Sherlock smirked and carefully did as he was told. To John’s relief, nothing happened to go wrong. 

“Dinner?” John begged. 

"Sure." 

"Are you going to eat?" 

Sherlock groaned. 

“We had a deal!” 

“I ate a big lunch.” 

“Sherlock, I may not always know when you’re lying, but I know you well enough to know you most certainly did  _not_  eat a big lunch. Besides, Mike says he saw you. You had a few chips and then left to work on this bloody thing.” He gestured toward the orange mess the explosion had made of the cauldron. 

“I don’t understand, can’t we just have a chat while  _you_  eat?” 

“Sherlock, we agreed. You have to eat dinner.” 

“I don’t remember agreeing. I remember you bribing me with the prospect of a Third Date.” 

Between the two of them, ‘Third Date’ had become a euphemism for sex. Which they still hadn’t had. And never would, if Sherlock didn’t take care of himself. When John pointed this out for perhaps the hundredth time, Sherlock marched past him up the stairs as though he’d been sent to his room. John took this as compliance, threw his bag over his shoulder, and followed all the way to the Great Hall. 

Sherlock at their table had become a typical sight for John’s fellow Gryffindors, and so when he plopped down before John had had a chance to, he was simply greeted with an overly enthusiastic “Hello, Sherlock!” from Harry and a nod from Lestrade. 

Sherlock ignored them, but started sulkily eating the shepherd’s pie John placed in front of him. 

“How’re things, Sherlock?” Mary asked. 

Sherlock shrugged. 

“He’s been bored. Not had a case for ages,” John answered for him, and Sherlock sighed in agreement as he seemed to reluctantly enjoy his meal. 

“Eh, that’s alright, mate,” Harry put in. “Christmas holidays coming up, I’m sure you can’t wait to get away from lessons.” 

“Actually, it’s rather more dull at home than it is here. At least there’s—never mind,” Sherlock cut himself off and glanced warily at John. John of course, knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he wouldn’t even say it in front of him, let alone all of these people. 

“Well,  _I’m_  looking forward to the holidays. I’m spending them with Clara.” John felt his own eyebrows knit together at the pointed look Harry gave Sherlock. 

“Oh. Right. Um…John.” Sherlock turned to him and cleared his throat. “Would you, um…I was wondering if you might like to spend the holidays with me.” He glanced almost imperceptibly at Harry, as though looking for approval. 

John saw her nod out of the corner of his eye and almost kicked her. Of course. Of  _course_  she’d said something to Sherlock. 

“Of course, Sherlock. I’ll have to send an owl to Aunt Edith, but I’d be delighted.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat again. “Good. That’s um…that’s good. I’d be delighted to have you.” 

Harry grinned triumphantly, and it was all John could do to keep from flinging a carrot at her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we start with the holidays. When I say to be prepared for December, heed my warning. I wrote way too much Christmas with the Holmeses, if that's possible.


	14. Chapter 14

“Do you have everything?” John asked.

“Of course. Ready?”

John nodded just as Mycroft entered, his nose buried in some book on the regulation of magical artifacts. When he saw John, he simply rolled his eyes and continued reading.

Tiny Professor Flitwick stepped around his desk with a large box of Floo Powder.

“Mister Holmes the elder, then,” he chimed, holding the box out to Mycroft, who tucked his book under his arm and tossed a bit of the powder into the fire that was burning away.

The emerald flames reminded John of the previous instances he’d used Floo Powder, which were few and far between. As Mycroft stepped over the hearth and muttered, “Holmes Manor,” John wondered just how often the Holmes brothers had. He himself was still prone to shouting his destination, after all these years.

“I’ll go next,” Sherlock said, dragging his trunk along behind him as he followed his brother.

“John,” Flitwick stopped him with a hand on his arm, just below his elbow. “Before you go, I’d like to tell you…you’ve done wonders for Sherlock. I’ve never seen him so happy in all his time at Hogwarts.”

John blinked. “Thanks, Professor.”

“Alright, off you go, then,” he said, allowing John to step into the flames and exhale the words he’d been told.

He never could get used to the sensations of travelling by Floo Powder, even with the tips he’d been given as a child with his first attempt. The spinning made him sick, just as the chance of a wrong destination filled his head with worry until his feet made contact with solid ground in the form of the Holmes’s fireplace.

“Oh, there he is,” John heard a woman say before he’d even opened his eyes. He was pulled out of the grate and immediately embraced by arms that were somehow new but familiar, cold, but with an underlying sort of appreciation.

When Mrs. Holmes held him at arm’s length, John couldn’t help but take a moment to study her, noticing each bit of Sherlock’s face in hers, noting the features she gave him, like the bow of her lips and the strange, cool shade of her eyes.

By the time John registered her smile, he was smiling back. “Hello, Mrs. Holmes,” he said politely.

“Hello, John. It’s lovely to meet you. Of course, Sherlock can’t be bothered to write much, but he’s mentioned you in every single one of his letters this term. Honestly, I couldn’t wait to see what all the fuss was about.”

He heard Sherlock huff impatiently behind her.

“Hush, now, you could at least give Mummy the satisfaction of having a proper chat with your John,” she insisted before John could acknowledge it himself.

“Yes, right, and we can all have a proper chat at dinner. Right now I’d rather like to give him a tour.”

“Fine. Yes, alright,” Mrs. Holmes said with a dismissive wave. John thought she sounded rather like Sherlock when John told him he was being ridiculous.

Sherlock took his hand and pulled him along a corridor without another word.

“What about our trunks?”

“We’ll worry about those later.”

“Well, where are we going first?” John asked, gaping at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases in the library as they passed it.

“Oh, we’re not actually going on a tour. We’re going to the one place in this house that really matters.”

Up two flights of stairs and along another corridor, they came to a stop in front of three doors, two of them quite obviously bedrooms. It was also obvious which was Sherlock’s; the doorknob was tarnished and scorched, and there was an ancient sign which was almost unreadable, but clearly once stated something about elder brothers not being permitted to enter. Sherlock pulled a complicated device covered in wires and pins from his pocket and began performing a series of actions which John could only guess would lead to the door opening.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t very well leave my room unlocked while I’m away. Mother might come in and tamper with one of my experiments.” Sherlock’s normal condescension was lost as the tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth and his hands worked to pick the lock. “Alohomora won’t work because I’ve jinxed it. So I have to open it by hand.”

“There’s not a key?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“Of course there’s a key.”

“Then why don’t you use it?”

“Obvious. Mummy has the key, but I’ve replaced the lock with a homemade one.”

John was about to retort, but at that moment the lock clicked rather more dramatically than most locks John had come across, and they crossed the threshold into Sherlock’s bedroom.

The assault on John’s nose was so brutal that it came before he could even visually take in the heavy, velvet curtains or the immense four-poster that dwarfed his own back at Hogwarts.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock exclaimed, running toward the far corner, where John now saw a collection of cauldrons of various sizes, most of them full of some sort of oozing liquid.

“Sherlock,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of his own elbow, “what is that?”

Sherlock frantically poured ingredients into the second-largest cauldron and continued to chant, “No, no, that’s not supposed to happen!” frustratedly.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and Mycroft appeared in the open doorway. “What on earth is going on up here? Another one of your little experiments gone wrong?”

Suddenly, Sherlock froze. He turned to stare at Mycroft dangerously, a bundle of roots still clutched in one hand. “You did this.”

“No, I didn’t. Why would I bother with your ridiculous experiments?”

Sherlock looked as though he was about to throw the roots across the room, but somehow he managed to lay them down gently next to the cauldron. “You never liked me experimenting with potions. You want Mummy to put a stop to it.”

“Of course I do, but why would I go near—”

“Sabotage.”

“Excuse me?”

“You sabotaged this potion. It wasn’t even anything dangerous, Mycroft, I was just measuring the potency of love potions over time.” Sherlock had taken a few very frightening steps toward his brother, and John was already prepared to hold him back if it came to blows. “Now this experiment is ruined. I’ll have to start all over.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Mycroft replied, no longer denying his involvement. He went into his own room and closed the door firmly.

“So,” John began, desperate to take Sherlock’s mind off of the ruined potion and ease the tension. “Should we…I don’t know…”

“I can’t right now, John, I have to remake this fucking potion,” Sherlock fumed.

John stepped back. Sherlock hardly ever cursed. “Oh. Alright. I guess I’ll…I’ll just explore the house a bit, shall I?”

Sherlock nodded with his back turned as he set to work clearing the cauldron and starting the new love potion from scratch, leaving John no choice but to leave him there in one of his black moods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begin the holidays. I promise Sherlock doesn't spend them in a sulk. After all, John's there with him.


	15. Chapter 15

John wandered the halls of Holmes Manor, thinking of Sherlock. He imagined Sherlock spending the first eleven years of his life here, made note of the books in the library that he thought Sherlock had probably read, studied the portraits of his family that hung in the hall, wondering if any of them had been as amazing, or at least as amazingly frustrating, as Sherlock was. 

He did his best to avoid the other inhabitants of the house. He wasn’t overly fond of the idea of his first full conversation with Sherlock’s parents happening without Sherlock present. If he was being completely honest with himself, the prospect of being properly introduced was a bit frightening. He was nervous, to say the least. But the house was large enough for John to go unnoticed by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes quite effortlessly as he went from room to room, entering only the ones which were open and clearly not private. 

Had he been there by his side, Sherlock would have chided him for his politeness. John was suddenly struck with an image of Sherlock at his house, with all of Aunt Edith’s pointless collections which filled locked rooms, armed with his lock-picking contraption. He snorted. It was very unlikely that Sherlock and Aunt Edith would get along very well. 

By the time the clock in the hall chimed seven o’clock, John decided it was time to head back up to Sherlock’s and see what progress he had made with rebuilding his experiment. Also, he figured dinner couldn’t be far off, and wanted a word with him before going down to face his family. 

When John reached the landing, he found Sherlock’s bedroom door locked. Knocking lightly, he called, “Sherlock, it’s me. Could you please let me in?” 

The door opened, and John was almost immediately met with a kiss, Sherlock latching onto his bottom lip fiercely, as though his absence for most of the day was more upsetting than Sherlock had anticipated it would be. He kissed back steadily, but with a reserve that brought Sherlock to his senses and forced him to pull away and ask, “What?” 

“Well, I thought we would eat soon, and considering your mother’s probably down there ready to have that ‘proper chat’ you promised her earlier, I wanted to have a few minutes alone with you,” John explained. 

“Sound reasoning, John, but I hardly see how any hesitation should make those few minutes any more enjoyable.” 

“We can get to the snogging later, idiot,” John replied with a grin. “How’s the experiment?” 

Sherlock sighed. “Coming along. The potion’s finished. All I have to do now is hope Mycroft stays out of my bedroom long enough to get the results.” 

“I see.” 

“Perhaps I’ll have to change the locks again,” Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to John. 

John, amused, was about to kiss him again when he heard an almost indistinguishable shout from below. 

“That’ll be Mummy.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and took John’s hand, leading him from the room. 

When they entered the dining room, John suddenly became conscious of where their hands were joined; every point of skin that touched made him sweat a bit more, and it didn’t help when Mycroft looked up from that evening’s  _Prophet_  to glance at them standing so close together and roll his eyes. John tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt, eliciting a similar facial gesture from Sherlock. 

“Hello, boys. Glad you could join us,” Mr. Holmes said from one end of the table, which was rather short and cozy in comparison to the size of the room itself. 

“Happy as ever to be graced with your presence, Sherlock,” Sherlock’s mother added as she entered the room from what could only be the kitchen. If he weren’t fighting the urge to spontaneously combust, John would have laughed as he realized he’d found the source of Sherlock’s sarcastic tendencies. 

“Good evening, Mummy.” 

“Good evening Sherlock. And good evening to you, too, John. I hope you’re doing well in this drafty old house.” 

“Good evening, Mrs. Holmes. I sure am.” 

“And Sherlock’s behaving?” 

Before he could stop himself, John snorted, “Does he ever?” 

Mrs. Holmes chuckled. “Yes, he does tend to be a bit contrary, doesn’t he dear?” she said, turning to her husband, who nodded and smiled. “But John, why don’t you and Sherlock take a seat? The food will be out shortly. It’s a sort of tradition for us to have the boys’ favourites for dinner on their first night back for the holidays.” 

John glanced at Sherlock, realizing for the first time that he had no idea what the boy’s favorite dish was. Right on the heels of that revelation was the one that, knowing what it was, he might be able to coerce Sherlock into stepping away from his cauldrons and investigations to eat more frequently. He saw Sherlock’s smirk, as though he knew exactly what was going through John’s head—he probably did—and he was going to do his best not to be convinced so easily. 

Sherlock pulled out a chair, and John took it just as Mr. Holmes cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. A sound from the kitchen seemed to draw him in, and when he came back, he was carrying two large dishes, which he somehow managed to place on the table without dropping. 

Tortellini and some sort of stew were revealed, and Sherlock, locking eyes with John pointedly, reached for the pasta, his smirk worse than ever, for there was rarely anything at all resembling Italian food in the Great Hall at mealtimes. 

John, unsure which dish to choose, eyed the stew curiously. 

“ _Bouillabaisse_ ,” Sherlock murmured “Although if Mycroft really had his way he would just have cake for dinner.” 

John couldn’t help but giggle a bit. 

“And then more cake for dessert,” Sherlock continued, once it was clear he had John’s approval in making the joke. 

Mycroft glared across the table at him as John barked out an involuntary laugh. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and speared a bit of food rather purposely with his fork. 

In the end, John chose the pasta. He was delighted but unsurprised to find that it was just as authentic as the tortellini he’d had in Italy. His aunt and uncle had taken him and Harry on holiday there three years ago. John smiled at the memory; Harry had spent most of that trip carousing about with a local girl, and had eventually been picked up at the local Muggle police station by a very irate Aunt Edith when it turned out the girl was a rather infamous pickpocket. 

He was pulled from his reverie by the sound of his own name, being spoken by Sherlock. 

“John’s birthday is Sunday,” Sherlock was saying, and John almost blushed as an afterthought. 

“Is it?” Mrs. Holmes turned to John. “Well, we’ll have to have a special dinner then, too, won’t we? What’s your favourite dish, dear?” 

“Er, well…” John hadn’t been prepared to answer questions about something so trivial as his own food preferences. “I suppose I like…well…” 

“Shepherd's pie,” Sherlock said confidently. 

John reddened and nodded. Of course Sherlock would know his favourite food better than he did. “He’s right.” 

Mycroft seemed to be resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose as his mother said, “Well, it’s settled then. On Sunday night, we’ll have shepherd's pie. And for dessert?” 

“Ice cream,” Sherlock answered for him again, before he noticed the expression on his brother’s face and shot at him, “Come on, Mycroft, don’t get your knickers in a twist because that’s another loss for cake.” 

“Sherlock, I’ll not have you speaking that way at the table,” Mrs. Holmes commanded, while simultaneously shooting Mycroft a chiding look. 

“What way?” 

“You know what you said.” 

“What, ‘knickers’?” 

“Yes. Not another word about knickers for the rest of the evening, understood?” 

Sherlock looked as though he was going to say something even snarkier, and so John elbowed him sharply, fearing what a punishment for Sherlock might mean for him. He didn’t think he could take wandering around this huge house all alone again. In fact, he’d been hoping to spend some time with Sherlock in his room, now that the experiment had been restored and he wouldn’t be so distracted. 

To his credit and John’s relief, Sherlock didn’t say another thing about knickers for the rest of the night. 

By the time dessert came round—a rather large chocolate cake with the richest frosting John had ever tasted—Sherlock was beginning to get antsy. He barely made a single remark about Mycroft having a second piece, which John thought odd; Sherlock never missed an opportunity to tease Mycroft, especially if Mycroft was actually around to hear his commentary. However, it was clear by the time Sherlock abruptly asked, “May we be excused?” that he was simply bored with the proceedings when he could be snogging John next to his prized experiments. 

Mrs. Holmes eyed her son carefully, and John realized she must be used to his mischief. Finally, she nodded, and Sherlock shot up from the table, grabbing John’s hand and dragging him out of his own seat. “But if I hear a single explosion, those cauldrons are going out to the stables again,” she shouted after him, and John wondered just how many explosions he’d caused over the years. 

Outside his room, Sherlock had to drop John’s hand to pick the lock. Once inside, however, he didn’t hesitate to push John up against the closed door and kiss him. He kissed him as though he was making up for the lost day, begging for forgiveness for abandoning him, and John tried as best he could to convey his own irritation at the circumstances in return. 

Sherlock broke away abruptly and ran to his bed, sitting cross-legged, facing John and looking rather more nervous than he ought to have been, making John smile. “There’s a guest suite if you want it. Mycroft’s probably already had your things taken up there, but…if you want to, you could…” He trailed off, twisting his fingers together in his lap before gesturing vaguely at the space around him. 

John walked over and laid across the bed beside him, an arm wrapped casually around Sherlock’s waist, his head almost in Sherlock’s lap. “Of course I’ll stay in here.” 

“Do you want to get your trunk?” 

“Perhaps tomorrow. In the meantime, we could…pick up where we left off at the door?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Get rid of that ridiculous jumper first.” 

“I like this jumper!” 

“Yes, and that is the only reason I tolerate it. But put something else on, there’s no way I can control myself if you snog me shirtless.” 

“What, the shirt has to go, too?” 

“Of course. It’s an awful color. Honestly, it doesn’t even  _match_  the jumper.” 

As John pulled on a pair of Sherlock’s pyjamas—a little tight, but worth it for the idea alone—he remarked, “Is this just a way to get me into your clothes?” 

Sherlock smirked. “Maybe. Why, do you mind?” 

“Maybe,” John replied, then soon added, “Maybe not.” He did up the last button before he turned to Sherlock and continued to tease him. “You don’t? I mean, it is rather domestic, and you being—” 

By now, John had made his way back to the bed and sat on the edge, and Sherlock cut him off with his own mouth. He was pushed back onto the mattress almost by Sherlock’s lips alone. How did he do that? How was his mouth so talented that he could bend John to his will by simply slotting it around and against John’s? He shuddered at the thought of what it might feel like against other parts of him. There was absolutely nothing John wouldn’t do for that perfect mouth, with all the wonderfully imperfect things it said and the absolutely thrilling things it  _did_ , nothing he wouldn’t do for Sherlock, who as far as he was concerned was even more perfect than his mouth. 

John loved that mouth. Perhaps even more, he loved that it belonged to the person it belonged to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, December will be crazy for this fic. Here's the schedule:
> 
> 20 Dec--Chapter 16  
> 22 Dec--Chapter 17  
> 24 Dec--Chapter 18  
> 25 Dec--Chapter 19  
> 26 Dec--Chapter 20  
> 27 Dec--Chapter 21  
> 31 Dec--Chapter 22
> 
> If that seems crazy, I don't care. I like the idea of posting the Christmas season with its events at least close to the date that they occur. Plus I'm excited to see you guys more often over the next month!
> 
> As always, kudos are Christmas cookies and comments are holiday hearts.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is late because they scheduled me to work a fuckton the week of Christmas. I am not happy about it. But today you get two chapters for your trouble.

John was surprised to wake before Sherlock, whose limbs were wrapped around him so tightly that he shouldn’t have been comfortable, but he was. Cool breaths puffed against John’s throat from Sherlock’s nose, and each thump of Sherlock’s heart against his side made John dread the inevitable moment when Sherlock would leap out of bed and into action.

When that moment did come, Sherlock talked very quickly about all of the things they were going to do that day before quite suddenly falling silent and staring into the smallest of his cauldron collection. John shook his head. There was no way he was pulling Sherlock away for at least an hour, and there was surely something he could do until then.

Before he could get out of the room, however, Sherlock said sharply, “Where are you going?”

“I was going to get my trunk.”

“Nonsense. If you wait just a few moments, I’ll have Dad take care of it.”

“No, it’s alright.”

“John, don’t you dare step one foot out that door.”

John smirked and turned to him, his hand still on the door handle. “You’re working on experiments. I know how you are, you’ll be at it for hours.”

“You’re thinking of my experiments at school. I can leave these here. In fact, they’re meant to be left here. All of these potions are components in experiments which measure long-term usefulness and rates of decay. It wouldn’t be very productive to be standing over them all day, would it?”

“No, I suppose not.” John grinned and crossed his arms, leaning against the door. “I’ll wait.”

After getting John’s trunk up a flight of stairs to Sherlock’s room (John had insisted that they do it themselves, and Sherlock had no problem using magic outside of school) and dressing, Sherlock gave John a guided tour. They went everywhere that John had gone the day before, but it was much more enjoyable having Sherlock at his side, explaining his relation to the people in the portraits, pulling certain books from the shelves in the library and showing John the notes he’d made in them as a child, his corrections to the text. He notably avoided discussion of Mycroft’s corrections to his corrections, but John saw them elegantly looping around Sherlock’s scrawl in the margins of almost every book he saw, making him smile and shake his head.

“What?” Sherlock demanded when he did.

“Nothing. You’re just…Sherlock.”

“Well, yes, of course I’m Sherlock. Who did you think I was?”

“I was just thinking of how cute you are, idiot.”

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. “Cute?” he said finally. “I’m cute?” He practically spat out the word as though it tasted awful on his lips. John rolled his eyes.

+++

The way Sherlock gave the tour, it lasted a whole day and a half. Granted, that was because he seemed insistent on snogging in most rooms—the library, the lounge, and the sun room, to name just a few. This meant that John spent the greater part of his birthday wandering from room to room and simply waiting for Sherlock to attack him on some well-placed sofa or chair, or, as in the case of the sitting room, an extravagant footstool. He couldn’t complain, even when Mycroft walked in on them at it on the baby grand piano and turned around and walked right back out without a word.

By mid-afternoon, Sherlock had seemingly decided that they’d properly snogged each other throughout the house, so he said, “It’s your birthday.”

“Yeah, good job remembering.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but said nothing to the effect of “Of course, don’t be absurd.” Instead, he asked, “What do you want to do?”

John shrugged.

There was a gleam in Sherlock’s eyes that John recognized immediately.

“What?” he said, cautious.

“Do you want to go for a swim?”

“Excuse me?”

"You saw the pool! It's indoors. Heated with an enchantment of my mother's invention."

“I'm not really concerned about the weather. I don’t have anything to wear. Why would I bring swimming things to your house for Christmas? How was I supposed to know you’ve got a bloody swimming pool?”

Sherlock smirked. John understood the familiar gleam he’d seen before.

“No.”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a dignified pout.

“Absolutely not. Your parents are wandering the house.”

“But John,” Sherlock whined.

John sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head. He was doing that a lot lately, wasn’t it? “Bloody hell. Fine.”

He wasn’t able to process whether Sherlock gave him a genuine, excited smile or another smirk before he was being dragged to the south wing.

+++

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” John muttered as he pulled his jumper over his head.

Sherlock was locking the door. In fact, John had forced him to.

He was down to his pants by the time he felt Sherlock behind him, kissing the back of his neck, snaking his arms around John’s waist, and already completely naked.

“Sherlock!” He jumped away, startled, and heard him chuckle. “You prat,” he said, turning to look at him with a smile and swinging the sock he was holding at Sherlock’s shoulder.

John soon found he was struggling between the impulse to study Sherlock closely and the desire not to seem too eager, so he was grateful when Sherlock backed away and waded into the pool.

John stuck a toe in to check that the water wasn’t too cold. He felt his face go red as he waded in after Sherlock and looked up to see him staring. “What?”

“Oh. Nothing.” Sherlock turned quickly away, his cheeks similarly pink.

“Sherlock, are you…are you nervous?” It was something that John didn’t think him capable of at this point.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock snapped, though the speed of his response said otherwise. He had to visibly compose himself after the outburst. “I’m not bothered at all by my nakedness, John. Honestly, I don’t see how you would even get that impression.”

John cocked his head as a small smile crept around the corners of his mouth. Somehow, Sherlock’s nerves were giving him more confidence. “You’re sure it’s not something else?” When he put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the younger boy sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Well, per-perhaps,” he conceded as John moved closer, still cupping his shoulder and now moving in for a kiss.

“Then what is it? What’s bothering you?” John whispered, just a few inches away from him now.

“I just—oh my god.” He suddenly slipped out from under John’s hand and pressed his back against the tile at the edge of the pool, alarm dancing around the edges of his eyes and drawing them open wider. “Oh my god,” he repeated.

“Sherlock what—”

“I’m sorry, John, I…” He looked lost. “Forgive me, I just…lost control for a moment.”

John was puzzled until he saw the way Sherlock held his hands under the water, clasped tightly in front of himself. He raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

And now he was feigning casual disinterest. _Great_. Always a sure sign that something was wrong. “Sherlock, it’s fine.”

“What?”

“It’s fine. Come here.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Come here!” John commanded. It was the only thing that seemed to reach Sherlock sometimes, and as John suspected, he did as he was told. “Sit,” he said, and gestured to the submerged stair beside him. He took a seat as well.

“Sherlock—”

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just thought it might be fun to—”

“Would you shut up a minute?” John sighed. “Sherlock, it’s fine. Truly. It’s better than fine, really. We are in a relationship. When we talked about it before, you were interested. So it is good to know you’re actually attracted to me.”

John had been ready to keep going, but Sherlock suddenly cut across him. “You already knew that.”

“Well, yeah, but…that was with clothes on.”

Sherlock stared at him, uncomprehending. “Why would that be any different?”

“Well, there are…” John struggled with the right words to use. “There are things you don’t see when someone’s got clothes on.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock snorted.

“And so…there’s room for disappointment.”

Sherlock narrowed and then rolled his eyes, understanding an annoyance seeming to crash down on him simultaneously. “John, do you honestly think I hadn’t deduced it all already?”

John didn’t know what to say. “I…I didn’t really think about it.”

They were both silent.

“Wait, did you say you ‘lost control for a moment’?”

Sherlock nodded.

“So you…control it?”

Once again, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But I’ve mastered it, to a degree. I don’t usually have much trouble in…that area.”

“Keeping your body under control, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Sherlock, that’s incredible,” John found himself saying, and then he laughed at himself, because that was such a stupid thing to say, but it was true. John couldn’t have kept a lid on his hormones if he’d tried.

Sherlock turned to him. “You think so?” he said, genuinely curious, which sent John into fresh giggles, which in turn set them off in Sherlock. They laughed gleefully until they were slumped against each other, catching their breath.

“Well,” John said, finally, “I could, you know...”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not yet. We’ve got to wait for the sacred Third Date.” Sherlock winked at him playfully.

“You did just give me a tour of your entire house.”

“So a tour of my house qualifies as a date?”

“If a tour means dragging someone from room to room and snogging them senseless, then yes.”

Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder. “Doesn’t count.”

“What? Why not?”

“Didn’t your definition of ‘date’ include going out?”

“You take everything so bloody literally.”

“But you like it.”

John noticed that his fingers had begun stroking Sherlock’s ribs after the fact. “Of course.”

“Not sure why.” Sherlock buried his face against John’s neck and put his arms around him. “Happy birthday, John.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“I’ve got a present for you.”

“Really? You know, at home we typically just wait for Christmas.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, it’s only a few days away. And that way we don’t have to bother with gifts twice in one week.”

“But it’s your birthday!” Sherlock stood up in outrage. “You’re supposed to feel special on your birthday, you shouldn’t be opening your birthday presents on a day that everyone gets some.”

“What if my birthday were on the twenty-fifth instead?”

“That would be unfortunate. But as it is, your birthday is on the twenty-second, and so you get an entire day that’s about you, from now on. What kind of childhood did you _have_?”

Rather a decent one, John thought. Despite his uncle’s fondness for drink and his aunt’s rather strict guardianship, they were nice people. He hadn’t ever felt lacking in anything. Perhaps a few more children his age would have been nice, but otherwise he had no complaints about the earlier parts of his life. “It was fine.”

Sherlock’s calculating look swept over him, reading him. “You didn’t have many friends.”

“I suppose not.”

“Neither did I.”

John tried to act surprised, and hated himself for having to try at all. “Really?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Maybe that’s why we get on so well,” John said, reaching out and beckoning him back to the stair. Instead of sitting, however, Sherlock pulled him to his feet and out into deeper water.


	17. Chapter 17

They floated on their backs with their hands clasped together for a long while. John closed his eyes and imagined what sort of gift Sherlock might be planning to give him. He almost laughed at some of the possibilities. 

“So, when am I going to get this present?” he finally asked. 

“After dinner.”  Sherlock let his feet drift back underneath him and pulled John upright as well. “We should get ready.” 

+++

If anyone had told Sherlock a week ago that he would be showering with his boyfriend just before a family dinner which was supposed to revolve around said boyfriend and his birthday, he wouldn’t have wanted to believe it, because it would have been too good to be true, not to mention he would surely ruin it with his ridiculous self-indulgence and lack of control around John. 

As it turned out, he had seemed to master his body’s reactions to John’s naked one in under an hour, and as he helped the other boy wash his hair he smirked in spite of himself. 

That wasn’t to say that it wasn’t a difficult feat. He had to avoid looking at John for too long, avoid touching any part of him below the neck, or the whole wall would collapse. He knew because it almost had just a few minutes ago; he’d looked away from the muscles that stretched between John’s broad shoulders just in time to catch it as it began to tumble. 

John turned to him and lathered up his curls, smiling brightly. “It’s not a big deal, you know.” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock said, although he knew what John was getting at. 

“It’s not a big deal. You know, if you get a little turned on from time to time.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “There’s no such thing as me being ‘a little’ aroused.” 

 “All or nothing, huh? Really?” 

“I’ve got to keep myself under control for a reason,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. 

John laughed, then stopped suddenly in wonder. “How often do you—?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“Fine. I was just curious.” 

Sherlock sighed. “It depends. Increasingly often.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“Yes. And yes, it is your fault. And if you don’t shut up now, it’s going to happen again.” 

“Who said I didn’t want it to happen again?” 

“No one said it, but I assumed based on the fact that we’re meant to be down at dinner soon and you’d like us both to look presentable. If I recall, 'thoroughly shagged' doesn’t fall into the definition of 'presentable,' does it?” 

“In certain situations, maybe. But no, not for dinner with your parents,” John conceded. He turned off the water and reached for a towel. “Um, Sherlock.” 

“What?” 

“There aren’t any…” He felt around the curtain before throwing it open to the rest of the small, tiled room in frustration. “…towels. We forgot towels.” 

Sherlock glanced around the room. “So we did.” 

“But…where are the towels kept?” 

“Typically in the, uh…in the linen cupboard.” 

John made to walk to the cupboard in the corner. 

“No, not that one,” he said as John opened it, revealing a startling array of potions in small glass vials, labeled meticulously. 

“Then which one?” 

“The one in the hallway.” 

John glared at him. “Excuse me?” 

“There’s a cupboard across the hall with towels in it. That’s usually where I get them from.” 

“Go get them, then.” 

“I left my dressing gown downstairs. I would use magic, but my wand—”

“Is in the _pocket_ of your dressing gown.” John closed his eyes and sighed. “Fine. I’ll get them, then.” He snatched up his own from the hook on the door and tugged it around him without a backward glance. 

+++

“Bloody git,” John grumbled as he walked out of Sherlock’s bedroom and over to the small door that he presumed was the closet Sherlock had referred to. 

He was just closing the door, fresh towels in hand, when he turned and came face-to-face with Mycroft, who took one look at the towels that were clearly too many for one person and raised his eyebrows. 

“Hello, Mycroft.” John tried to be as polite and cool-headed as he could, given the circumstances. 

Mycroft nodded. “John.” Again, he glanced at the towels, much more pointedly this time. 

“Oh. Sherlock and I were just having a wash, and—well, we forgot towels.” 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. 

John walked past him, back to Sherlock’s bedroom door, before turning around to find Mycroft staring after him suspiciously. He sighed, and decided that if Mycroft was anything like Sherlock, coming across as extremely blunt was the least of his problems. 

“And no, we did not have sex. For the record.” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows even more, as if in disbelief, yet still somehow managed a cold distance in his stare. 

“See you later, Mycroft,” John went on, suppressing an eye-roll and practically slamming the door. 

“Well, your brother thinks we’re shagging,” John sighed as he stepped into Sherlock’s private bathroom and handed him a towel. 

“No he doesn’t.” 

“What? Yes he does. I definitely just saw him and he definitely has reason enough to believe that we’ve just christened your shower. I told him we didn’t, but I don’t think he believed me.” 

“He did. He knows you were telling the truth. He’s such a  _showoff_ ,” Sherlock grumbled. The last bit seemed to be a direct accusation to the man himself, even being absent from the present proceedings. “Besides, he would’ve heard.” 

“How do you know?” 

Sherlock looked at him almost pityingly. “Let’s just say he’s heard me before.” 

If John had been drinking something, he would have choked. Instead he stumbled over the shoe Sherlock had left in the middle of the floor.  

+++

Dinner couldn’t have lasted longer, in Sherlock’s opinion. And then, even after they’d all finished their ice cream, his father insisted upon bringing out a small gift for John. He would have rolled his eyes, but he remembered that John wasn’t used to proper birthdays, and so it was good for him to have more than one gift anyway. 

John smiled warmly at the jumper he unwrapped and thanked Sherlock’s parents. 

“Don’t mention it, dear,” his mother said, and Sherlock began to get irritated. 

“Right, well, are we all done, then? Good.” He made to take John’s hand and get up from the table. 

“Sherlock,” his mother warned. 

He sighed. “May we be excused?” he asked sarcastically, with no indication that he would refrain from leaving the table, regardless of what the answer was. However, she nodded and smiled and didn’t even bat an eye when he yanked John ungraciously to his feet. 

John seemed confused when they didn’t go upstairs, but down to the cellar. 

“I didn’t want to keep it in my room, in case you figured out what I was up to. I had Mummy start it while we were at school, but I finished it off myself.” 

He led John over to the cauldron in the corner. A golden liquid leapt in graceful arcs from one side of the container to the other, never spilling. 

“Sorry, but…what is it?” 

“Felix felicis.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Liquid luck. Just have a bit of it and everything you do will end well until the effects wear off.” 

John stared at him. “Isn’t that supposed to be really difficult to make?” 

Sherlock nodded. “I did say that Mummy started it for me. But it was my idea. I figured everyone should have one really fantastic day every once in a while.” 

John pecked Sherlock on the cheek. “I love it. Thank you. Although, to be fair, every day that I spend with you is pretty fantastic.” 

“I’ve got a vial if you want some right now.” 

John shook his head and grinned. “I’d rather save it for when I need it.” He pressed his lips chastely against Sherlock’s. 

“Happy birthday, John.” 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” John grasped Sherlock’s hand tightly. “Now, can we get upstairs for a little birthday snog?” 

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow. “You didn’t have enough of that this morning?” 

“Not a chance.” 


	18. Chapter 18

The next two days saw John more and more frantic as the owl he’d been expecting was later and later to its destination. He’d ordered Sherlock’s gift, as well as one for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and one for Mycroft, a week ago. It had been due to arrive on the morning of the 23rd, and he was beginning to think the parcels would never reach their destination when there was a tap at the library window, and he looked up to see a very large tawny perched next to them just outside. 

It was lucky that Sherlock had grown bored of his company and decided to work on an experiment of some sort, giving John time to check the gifts and properly wrap them before going to the sitting room and placing them under the Christmas tree just as he heard Sherlock call him. 

“Yes?” he said, jogging along the downstairs corridor in pursuit of the voice that had called out his name. He wanted to keep Sherlock out of the sitting room for as long as possible; the nosy bastard was bound to figure out what his present was at a glance, something John wanted to keep from happening too soon. 

“Where are you?” 

“I’m…here,” he said as he rounded a corner and ran right into Sherlock. 

“What are you doing all the way down here? I thought you were in the library.” 

“I, um…no reason.” 

Sherlock nodded and smirked. “Ah. Gifts.” 

John knew better by now than to ask how he knew. “Yes, gifts. And you’re going to stay out of the sitting room until tomorrow.” 

“You mean tonight.” 

“What?” 

“Mycroft and I always open gifts from each other on Christmas Eve. We save our parents’ gifts to us for tomorrow morning.” 

“So where do I play into that, exactly?” 

“I’m sure Dad and Mummy will open their present from you along with those from Mycroft and me. Mycroft and I will open your gifts to us, and you’ll open our gifts to you.” 

The corner of John’s mouth perked up into a small smirk. “Sure is nice, being one of the Holmes boys.” 

“You’re not a ‘Holmes boy’ yet. Not until you’ve endured Christmas dinner with our extended family.” 

John winced at his tone. “Are they that bad?” 

“Not  _that_  bad, I suppose,” Sherlock sighed. “Except for Aunt Wendy and her two children. They’re a waste of air, if you ask me.” 

John wondered if this was Sherlock being melodramatic or if they really were unbearably…something. To Sherlock, being boring was tantamount to the most heinous sin someone could commit.  Aunt Wendy probably had an affinity for talking too much about her mundane Ministry job or something. John knew Sherlock well enough not to rule that out as a possibility. 

“I’d rather not talk about them right now, I’ll have to talk  _to_  them tomorrow.” Sherlock pecked him on the nose. “We’ve got just enough time for a good snog before dinner.” 

John smiled at him. “You are insatiable.” 

“Please, John, refrain from stating the obvious and take me upstairs.” 

+++

It occurred to John as he dressed for dinner that he might miss snogging Sherlock in the middle of the day once the holidays were over and they had to go back to Hogwarts. In fact, he was probably going to miss the whole atmosphere at Holmes Manor. He would miss Sherlock’s mother at mealtimes fussing over Sherlock’s latest shenanigans, her praise of John for keeping him out of trouble at least to an extent, and then her chiding Sherlock for turning mild-mannered John into another mischievous thrill seeker. He would miss Sherlock’s constant argument that he had been that way when they met, and he would miss Sherlock’s father’s way of letting the geniuses go back and forth, rolling his eyes occasionally but always smiling around a mouthful of food. 

“You’re wearing that?” 

“Yes. I thought you’d approve.” He picked a small speck of fuzz from the collar of his new jumper. “You said you actually liked this one.” 

“I do. And I would tell you to save it for tomorrow if I didn’t know that Mycroft is going to give you an even better one.” 

“Oi!” 

“What?” 

“Some people actually like to be surprised by their Christmas presents.” 

“I still haven’t told you what I got you.” 

John had learned to accept small victories when it came to Sherlock, so he accepted this one. “And it’s going to stay that way.” 

Sherlock nodded and fastened the last few buttons on his shirt. 

+++

“It’s great to have some company for Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Holmes was saying as John ate pudding and tried to ignore the look Sherlock was giving him. It was like he was trying to see how long it would take for him to leap down the table and devour him. “Especially someone Sherlock’s so fond of.” 

“Well, I’m rather fond of him, too,” John replied, and Mrs. Holmes laughed. 

“I should hope so. You spend an awful lot of time together.” 

Suddenly, the expression on Sherlock’s face froze and reddened. John squinted at him slightly, but then smiled at his mother and nodded. 

“You’re good for him, John. Just the perfect mix of mild-mannered and willful. You’re bound to get into some trouble, though. I’m sure you two already get up to all sorts of things that I don’t know about,” she continued with a rather Sherlockian smirk, and John choked on his cider as he realized why Sherlock had clammed up. He glanced across the table to see Mycroft staring at his mother in horror. Mr. Holmes could barely contain his laughter. 

Sherlock gathered himself and cleared his throat pointedly. Mycroft seemed to realize that his fork was suspended halfway to his mouth and fixed that immediately. John coughed into his napkin and worried over his food. So  _that_  was where Sherlock got his proclivity for innuendo. 

After the awkwardness subsided, the meal continued with conversation about Holmes traditions for the remainder of the Christmas holiday. 

“On Christmas morning, the boys open up most of their presents, and then some of our extended family come for Christmas dinner and a little gift exchange.” Sherlock scoffed as his father mentioned relatives. 

“And then on the last day we’ll have an outing to celebrate Sherlock’s birthday early,” his mother added. 

“When is Sherlock’s birthday, by the way? He’s never told me.” 

“January the sixth.” 

Sherlock sat there innocently, looking as though he didn’t care at all about his birthday, but John knew better. Sherlock loved being the center of attention, and if his tantrum about the injustices of how John’s birthday was usually celebrated were any indication, he took birthdays very seriously. It amazed John that he hadn’t told him flat out when his birthday was, but then he hadn’t had to tell Sherlock, so perhaps the daft genius thought that John would think to get the information by whatever means _he_ had. 

John looked at him. “Good to know.” 

Sherlock blushed. 

+++

John thought there was something extremely endearing in the way the entire Holmes family led him to the sitting room after dinner, bickering over, of all things, whose gift it was no trouble to get. This, before the gifts had even been opened. 

John was a bit startled when Sherlock and Mycroft sat on the floor next to the tree and crossed their legs in front of them like children. Mycroft simply looked uncomfortable and unnatural in the position, his gangly limbs in front of him casually. Sherlock didn’t look out of place at all, which was possibly even more surprising than his willingness to follow what was obviously a tradition that he’d held from childhood. 

“Who’s first?” Sherlock’s father asked from his plush armchair as John took a seat next to Sherlock. 

“John should go first.” 

“No, you go first,” he replied to Sherlock. He resisted adding, “You already know what you’re getting anyway.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re our guest. You have to go first.” 

John glared at him for putting him on the spot and only agreed to it when he saw Mycroft impatiently roll his eyes. “Fine. What should I…which should I open?” 

Sherlock reached under the tree to pull out a plainly-wrapped gift and hand it to him. The tag told John that it was from Mycroft, who stared on stoically as he tore away the paper. 

“Oh, thanks, Mycroft,” John said, trying to sound surprised and failing miserably as he opened the box and pulled out the jumper Sherlock had told him about. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes again and sighed, obviously aware of Sherlock’s spoiling the gift. “Don’t mention it.” He practically threw a similarly wrapped gift at Sherlock. It rattled when it landed in his lap. “You next, brother dear,” Mycroft said sarcastically. 

Sherlock opened and inspected the crystal vials Mycroft had given him before Mycroft unwrapped a black umbrella and a rather large box of Cauldron Cakes which, although the gift wrapping had been anonymous and out-of-place, even John could deduce were Sherlock’s idea of a fun gift for his brother. His suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock’s attempts to hide a snicker fooled no one and his mother shot him a dangerous look. 

John and Sherlock both waited for all the other packages to be unwrapped before even daring to give the other his gift. When the time came, they were surrounded by paper and both glanced at the tree. John’s gift for Sherlock was much more neatly wrapped, but that didn’t say much. As John looked at the lumpy package, he felt his heart stutter with the overwhelming warmth that overcame him, because he could tell just looking at it that Sherlock had tried to wrap it himself with magic, but gotten frustrated and finally just bound a ton of paper around the gift with Spellotape. He was reminded for perhaps the millionth time that it was not just his absolutely brilliant brain, but also Sherlock’s endearing and adorable imperfections which he was quickly falling for. 

Both of them reached for their gifts at the same time, then hesitated. 

“Together?” John suggested. 

In silent agreement, they handed each other their gifts and began unwrapping them. Both smiled as John revealed a new book of advanced Healing potions and Sherlock uncovered a pair of protective goggles. 

“For experiments,” John clarified. 

“I know. Hopefully you can figure out what that’s for.” 

John wanted to erase that smirk from his lips in the most effective way he knew how, but thought better of just attacking his boyfriend’s mouth in front of said boyfriend’s parents. Even if they were fully aware that he was likely to later. 

In fact, as soon as he and Sherlock had said good night to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and carried their new things upstairs, John set to work reducing the smug bastard to a puddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas Eve, darlings! Hope Santa brings you something you'll enjoy. (I also hope Santa leaves me lots of comments under this here fic-mas tree...)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's pretty much the 26th by now, but forgive me. I had a hard time tonight, and not even due to family or holiday issues. I'm not sure why. But I'm better now, and I'm posting two chapters right now, with Chapter 21 on its scheduled date of 27 December. Hope you've still got enough Christmas spirit in you to make it through the Holmes family's celebration!

When John woke the next morning, Sherlock was busy collecting data on his potions, his brand new protective eyewear on top of his head. 

“You’re supposed to wear them over your eyes, you know.” 

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied vaguely. 

“It’s Christmas.” John stretched and wandered over to his trunk to look for a pair of trousers to wear with his new jumper. 

“Don’t get dressed,” Sherlock said suddenly. 

“What? Why not?” 

Sherlock stared at him. “Have you never opened presents on Christmas morning?” 

“Yeah, of course I have. But why shouldn’t I—” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid the strap from the goggles off his head. “Come on. They’ll be waiting.” 

“Who? Your parents?” 

“No, the King and Queen. Of course, my parents!” 

Sherlock took John by the hand and led him back down to the den. “You know we don’t have a king.” 

“Of course not. Not in the wizarding world.” 

“But…neither does England. We don’t have a king  _at all_.” 

 “I can’t believe you’re still under the impression that I care about such things,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes again as they entered the room. “Happy Christmas, Mummy.” 

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looked around, puzzled. “Where’s Mycroft?” 

“Myc’s been up for ages. He’s helping your father with breakfast.” 

Sherlock seemed startled. “He’s helping…with breakfast?” 

“Yes, I’m helping with breakfast,” Mycroft confirmed as he entered the room with a tea tray. John thought he looked a bit out of place in his pyjamas, but he wasn’t surprised to find that they were made of a rich purple silk. 

He took a seat in the same spot he’d occupied the night before and sat patiently next to Sherlock until Mr. Holmes joined them, yawning and stretching as he collapsed into his armchair. “Go on, boys, take a gift,” he urged them. 

Sherlock reached under the tree and immediately pulled out a gift marked with John’s name, thrusting it towards him with a smirk that said he knew exactly what was inside. 

Opening gifts with the Holmes family proved to be quite a comical affair. Both Mycroft and Mummy Holmes were adamant about taking turns, and so a certain pattern played itself out with each round of gifts. Sherlock liked to tear open his presents violently, but only when Mycroft was poised and ready to open one of his, forcing him to wait until Sherlock had finished. 

John eventually also caught on to which presents had been wrapped by their father and which had been wrapped by their mother, for both boys seemed to have a much more difficult time deducing those that their mother had wrapped; more than once, John saw Sherlock practically throw his hands up in frustration before giving up and tearing the paper away. With John thrown into the mix, it seemed a nice change for Mr. Holmes to have wrapped presents that would actually be a surprise. His wife, it seemed, took this into account—significantly more of John’s gifts were wrapped by Sherlock’s father than were wrapped by his mother. 

The number of gifts he received was astounding. He’d learned over the past week that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were kind, generous people, if a bit antisocial. Still, he was startled by the way they treated their son’s boyfriend, as though he were a son himself—the only significant difference in his Christmas haul and Sherlock’s was the personal touch, and even that was not lacking much. John suspected that Sherlock, not to mention his mother’s own set of deductive skills, had something to do with that. 

Half an hour later, they were surrounded by Christmas wrappings, putting off getting dressed until the last second. John and Sherlock were both lying in a sort of nest of wrappings, sighing pleasantly every so often. Even Mycroft sat forward with his legs folded, his elbows resting on his knees, and his eyes closed, a contented smile drifting dangerously close to the corners of his mouth. 

“You boys should get upstairs and get dressed,” Mr. Holmes finally said. “Everyone will start getting here soon.” 

Sherlock groaned. “Do we really have to deal with those people this year?” 

“Now, Sherlock, behave. Wilson will be here, you actually get along with him,” Mrs. Holmes pointed out. 

“Yes, but those insufferable Beauxbatons brats will be here as well.” 

“Sherlock,” his mother warned. 

He sat up. “Fine, I’ll get ready. John, are you coming?” 

In all honesty, John had been dozing off. He jerked himself awake. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Sherlock helped him to his feet. 

+++

As it turned out, greeting Sherlock’s extended family as they arrived was just as much a Christmas tradition as presents or pudding, though not quite as pleasurable. John stood next to Sherlock in his nicest jeans and his brand new jumper and tried not to succumb to the impulse to hide as relatives entered the foyer. 

Sherlock smiled tightly at an unexpectedly chubby uncle as he made his way to the dining room with a curt nod. As a young man passed, Sherlock grinned more genuinely than John would have thought possible in anyone’s presence but his before being taken up into a hearty embrace, which he miraculously returned, although with much less fervor. 

“That’s Wilson. He works for the Ministry. Department of Mysteries,” Sherlock murmured after the man had left. “Seven years my senior, but he was still a much better childhood companion than Mycroft.” 

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I hadn’t really thought of you having cousins.” 

“Both of my parents have siblings. Why would I not have cousins?” 

John shrugged. “Maybe I just can’t picture you being a child.” 

Sherlock turned to him, his brow furrowed. “Why not?” 

“I don’t know. You’re just so...” 

“What?” 

“It’s like you’re  _still_  a child.” 

Sherlock scoffed. John smiled. 

“We’ll have to take a look at some photographs, won’t we, John?” Sherlock’s mother said from just behind them. She’d apparently been listening. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock commanded, but it was shadowed by a hidden plea. 

“Why on earth not?” She leaned conspiratorially toward John. “He was the sweetest boy, always with his Muggle pirate books and—oh! The errant curl!” Sherlock groaned as she and John giggled. 

Someone cleared her throat, and John found himself following Mrs. Holmes’s example of swallowing his laughter as a woman that could only be her twin approached. Trailing behind her were two teenagers in matching green robes and a man wearing a similarly colored tie. John was actually alarmed at how much Mrs. Holmes’s eyes contrasted with her warm smile. 

“Wendy, dear, how are you?” she said, sweet but reserved, as though appraising the situation while still hoping to keep it under control. 

“This weather is dreadful. We spent ages flying around in circles trying to find the place. Honestly, Violet, couldn’t you invest in a beacon of some sort?” 

John noticed Sherlock’s mother clenching her jaw ever-so-slightly. There was no doubting the tension in this relationship. John wondered whether they might be worse even than Sherlock and Mycroft. 

“Well, I can see it didn’t keep you from getting here on schedule,” Mrs. Holmes replied, a certain indication in her voice that she most certainly would have preferred if the weather had caused them to miss dinner entirely. 

“Of course not. Mason’s such a brilliant young navigator, he was able to maneuver the carriage on its descent.” 

The boy, who bore a striking resemblance to Sherlock despite some unpleasant difference that John couldn’t quite identify, smirked in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock glared at him. 

“Of course, they don’t teach any sort of advanced transportation methods at  _Hogwarts_ ,” Wendy went on casually, her attention still focused on her sister. 

“Oh, but they do. Mycroft’s just starting Apparition lessons. He’s doing quite brilliantly.  _You_  remember Apparition, don’t you, Wendy?” 

Clearly this was a sore subject, because John felt he’d missed something. 

“But of  _course_ Mycroft is doing well at Apparition.” She eyed the elder Holmes brother and smiled, sickly sweet. “Mycroft was always such a wonderful child. You’ve done well, Violet.” 

“Thank you, but it’s hardly my doing. My boys make their own way well enough.” 

The dark look that Wendy shot at her twin was so brief that John almost thought he’d imagined it. Then she turned to him. Without looking away from him, she asked, “And who’s this, then?” 

Sherlock may as well have stepped protectively in front of him as he blurted, “This is John. He’s—” 

“A boyfriend?” Wendy’s daughter raised an eyebrow. “How did  _you_  get a boyfriend?” 

John bit his tongue, but made a mental note to kiss the frown right off of Sherlock’s lips when these people went on to take their seats at the table. 

“Now, Delia, there’s someone for everyone,” her mother scolded, though there wasn’t the slightest trace of an actual reprimand. “Congratulations, Sherlock. It’s lovely to meet you, John.” 

Wendy and her family walked past, and John made good on his promise to himself. “You got a boyfriend by being brilliant.” 

He sensed rather than saw Mrs. Holmes's beaming face. She tousled his hair softly and whispered, “Thank you, John,” softly enough that Sherlock couldn’t hear. He nodded minutely, smiling himself. 

John was beyond surprised when the next person to greet them turned out to be none other than their classmate, Molly Hooper. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said shyly, clearly trying not to look at John too closely. “Hi, John.” 

“Hey, Molly,” John replied. 

“Paul!” Mr. Holmes said, reaching out to shake Mr. Hooper’s hand. “So glad you could make it.” 

When Molly and her father had departed the little greeting ceremony, the only remaining guest was Sherlock’s grandmother, who turned out to be a lot like Mycroft, one advantage of which was that she didn’t talk much, and simply greeted her son and daughter-in-law with a dainty handshake each, and her grandsons pats on the tops of their heads. 

“Ready to eat?” Sherlock’s father said with a sort of relieved sigh. 

“Absolutely,” John replied, a similar sigh escaping him. 


	20. Chapter 20

“So, John, how  _did_  you and Sherlock meet?” Wendy asked. 

John hadn’t been paying much attention to the conversation going on around him, so he couldn’t tell whether this was a sudden change of subject. He’d been watching Sherlock shove bits of roast duck all around his plate sourly. 

“Oh, um—” 

“We go to school together,” Sherlock mumbled without looking up from the untouched food in front of him. 

“But surely you must have met by some sort of interesting circumstance. I would be shocked to find you in the same social circles as one would find Sherlock,” she went on, as if John had been the one to answer her question. 

“Well, I was having a bit of trouble in Potions, and Sherlock offered to tutor me.” 

“Really?” 

John paused at her tone, then went on, “Yeah, he’s a genius at Potions. A genius at lots of things, really.” 

“How nice.” She said it as though she did not think it nice at all that Sherlock was a genius, before turning to Mycroft and acting as though the exchange hadn’t occurred. 

John glanced over to Sherlock again and found the corner of his lips perked up in a grateful smirk. 

“Mind you, I wouldn’t doubt it,” Sherlock’s uncle put in from Sherlock’s left, picking up right where Aunt Wendy had left off. After more than a few drinks, the man had opened right up. It was all John could do to keep a straight face as the beginnings of his sentences began to slur a bit. “Your mother,” he went on conspiratorially to Sherlock, “was the best in the class. Helped your father out from time to time, he was rubbish at Charms.” 

“Potions,” Sherlock corrected. 

“Right, right. Potions, I mean.” 

Mycroft was beginning to look uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his aunt. It was rather bizarre, seeing Mycroft look that sheepish, even if it was simply a shadow lingering behind his eyes. John was overcome with the urge to help him, but was completely unsure of what to say. Meanwhile, drunk Uncle Andrew was still occupying all of Sherlock’s amused attention, Mr. Holmes was conversing animatedly with Molly’s father, and Mrs. Holmes glared down the table at her sister. 

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Mycroft, dear, tell Aunt Wendy about your forthcoming internship at the Ministry.” 

Before he had a chance to begin, however, Wendy spoke again. “Oh, how lovely. Delia’s not spoken with him yet, but—oh,  _you_  tell them, Dee!” 

Delia sat up as straight as her spine would allow and cleared her throat as though about to deliver a very important and awe-inspiring speech. John was under the impression it was something she’d gotten into the habit of doing with years of practice. “Well,” she gushed, “we’ve just received word that upon my completion of education at Beauxbatons Academy, I’m to be offered the position of Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic himself. Apparently the current Junior Undersecretary is being promoted, and I shall take his job when he moves on to be Senior Undersecretary.” 

If Mycroft’s jaw could hang any lower, it would have hit the floor already. “Junior Undersecretary?” he said incredulously, and the tension of the unspoken competition between the two cousins--an obvious extension their mothers'--was overshadowed by the sight of Mycroft actually incredulous. 

John didn’t have to look over at Sherlock to know that, despite the continued conversation with Andrew, he was listening. At Delia’s mention of the job offer, John had felt him tense beside him. 

John nudged him and they leaned together far enough for a covert whisper to be heard. “Something tells me your rivalry with your cousins goes deeper than your sibling rivalry.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not just it. Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic—that’s everything that Mycroft’s ever aspired to be, since he was seven. She knows that. She’s baiting him.” 

John glanced at Mycroft. His cold mask of indifference was back, although John imagined it was much chillier than normal. 

True to form, Cousin Wilson broke the tension with a joke about how he couldn’t force himself to work directly with the Minister for all the galleons they could possibly offer him. John was beginning to see how he got along so well with Sherlock—he knew when to speak, and just what to say when he did. 

“But that’s all the same, I’m sure you understand, Mikey, old boy,” Andrew was saying to Sherlock, clapping him on the shoulder as though he’d continued talking through the tense moment. Maybe he had. 

“It’s Sherlock, Uncle Andrew.” 

“What?” 

“It’s not Mycroft. It’s Sherlock,” Sherlock replied flatly. 

Andrew turned his entire body in his chair and squinted at Sherlock before suddenly bursting into raucous laughter that shook his entire frame. “Of course! Sherlock! How could I be so stupid? Forgive me,” he said, leaning in and steadying himself on the back of Sherlock’s chair. “I hadn’t—I hadn’t realized you were so tall. Why, just yesterday you were a wee little thing, all scrawny and—well, I guess you’re still scrawny, eh?” He glanced at Sherlock’s plate. “Don’t eat much, do you?” 

“No, he doesn’t,” John answered before Sherlock could, enjoying this new line of questioning much more than the origin of their relationship. “I can hardly get him to eat half the time, and when he does, he mopes about it.” 

Andrew laughed. “Not much changed, then? I remember when I would bring little Wilson over so that they could play those Muggle games they loved so much, what were they? Pirates, and…something to do with building a…thing…out of sheets and pillows. Anyways, Violet always had to practically force feed him. Kid wouldn’t eat a damn thing.” 

“Why does that not surprise me,” John said, rolling his eyes and grinning at Sherlock, who was clearly trying as hard as he could not to give away the smile that was beginning to crack the corners of his stoic, disapproving lips. 

“Yeah, he always was a little freak.” 

John almost looked all around the room for the source of the sudden tension, bewildered at the change in atmosphere. The smile threatening to break through on Sherlock’s face disappeared completely, to be replaced by annoyance and…was that hurt? 

“Go on, Sherly. Tell your John about that time you murdered your brother’s cat,” Mason continued from across the table. John was suddenly able to place what he hadn’t liked in the boy’s face—he was always sneering, even when his face otherwise seemed to be neutral. 

“Actually, he’s already told me that one,” John said defensively. 

If Mason was thrown off at all by this revelation, he didn’t show. “Well, then, I guess you’ll know about the rabbit then, too.” 

John tried to stand his ground, but his brow furrowed curiously, giving him away. If Sherlock could perform magic with just his eyes, Mason would already be nothing more than a pile of dust. 

“And the _bird_ , and the—oh! Did he tell you about the time he freed the house elf?” 

“Oh, piss off, Mason, that elf was an idiot.” 

“Excuse you, Sherlock, for using such language at the table!” Wendy interjected, her attention latching onto Sherlock’s flub, relishing in the fact that he was far from a perfect child. “Shame on you, Violet, for letting your boys speak in such a way in front of guests. Or at all, for that matter!” 

Mrs. Holmes didn’t bat an eye. She simply lifted her wine glass serenely and shrugged. John could swear he thought he saw her wink at Sherlock, though, egging him on. 

“I apologise, Aunt Wendy. I had no intention of offending anyone.” Sherlock tilted his head politely in her direction. “I was simply returning the favor to your darling son. He seems not to have developed any more of a vocabulary since the age of eight, for his insults have not seemed to improve, but no matter. If you find it just as well for me to take those feeble attempts at heightening his self-esteem at my expense lying down, then I shall by all means do so.” 

The entire table was struck silent for several minutes aside from the occasional hiccup from Uncle Andrew. Molly and her father looked extremely nervous. 

Wendy was the first to gather herself. Mrs. Holmes was still beaming with pride as her sister said, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but what on earth do you mean? Mason was simply making conversation with your John about that funny business when you were inclined to believe that servants should be intelligent. How am I to understand that he was insulting you?” 

“‘Freak,’” John said softly, and everyone’s attention was suddenly on him. “He called him a freak.” 

Wendy’s tinkling laugh filled the room in an unpleasant way, making the back of John’s neck prickle. “Oh, John, you haven’t seen these two at it. They’re constantly calling each other names. It’s all in good fun.” 

John bristled. “Actually, it doesn’t seem to be,” he said firmly, and much more loudly than he’d originally intended. 

“John,” Sherlock muttered, touching his arm. It seemed to be the spark that finally lit John’s tinderbox of a temper. 

“Mason didn’t really seem to mean it ‘all in good fun.’ Not for Sherlock, anyway. In fact, Sherlock gets enough of that at Hogwarts. He doesn’t need it from his family.” 

“Well, perhaps if his parents had sent him to a different school—” 

John laughed bitterly, cutting her off. “Oh, please, this has nothing to do with what school he goes to. In fact, Hogwarts is the best school of wizardry there is, and you’re an idiot for sending your children anywhere else. No, this is about your son being a bully and you letting him get away with it.” 

No one seemed to know what to do. Andrew continued hiccupping. Sherlock and his parents sat, wide-eyed. Molly looked like she was about to fall off her chair. Mycroft, though, looked calmer than ever—perhaps his recent brush with Aunt Wendy had made him more susceptible to sympathizing with anyone who might have the audacity to stand up to her. 

“John, you have no right to—now, you hold on a moment. You do  _not_  know our family.” Wendy had finally dropped the conversational tone that had seemed to be a permanent quality of her particular brand of condescension, and her eyes flashed dangerously. 

“Of course I do, I have a sister. You spend all your bloody time trying to feel superior to your sister, and you bully her sons to make your case. If you spent half as much time trying to get to know Sherlock as you do tearing him down with your backhanded comments and obnoxious praise of your own oh-so- _wonderful_  brats, perhaps you’d be able to see why I love him. Excuse me,” he finished abruptly, standing and storming from the room, fists and jaw clenched. 

When he reached the corridor, he leaned against the wall with his face in his hands and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. What had he just done? That was Sherlock’s family. He wasn’t supposed to be rude. He was supposed to sit there like a nice boy, nod and smile, make polite conversation and make a good impression. What he’d done instead was shout at Sherlock’s aunt and stomp out of the room like a baby. Perhaps he was spending too much time with Sherlock. That thought, at least, brought a cautious smile to his lips. 

“John?” 

He sighed. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sat on the floor beside him and rested against the wall himself. “What for?” 

“For—I don’t know, ruining dinner.” 

“You didn’t ruin it. In fact, I…I daresay that’s the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had.” 

John turned to him. “Really?” 

“Yes. Every year for as long as I can remember, Aunt Wendy has tried to make it seem like she’s a better parent than Mummy. She’s always coming up with ways to make me seem like some sort of failure. Mycroft is the golden child, she can’t normally get anything on him. But I’ve got some rather obvious flaws.” He sighed. “Most years I have to just endure it. Every once in a while Mummy will stand up for me when it goes a bit far, but she’s generally in the same situation as me. We have to take the beating gracefully and simply wait for dinner to end so that that wretched woman can leave.” 

“That’s awful.” 

“Yes, it is. But…this year, I’ve got someone who’ll stand up for me, who’s not already under fire himself.” Sherlock’s fingers found John’s cheek and touched it lightly. “Thank you, John,” he whispered. “You don’t know how much that means to me.” 

They were silent for a moment, until John took Sherlock’s hand and folded it up in his own. “I meant what I said, by the way. I  _do_  love you.” 

Sherlock smiled and laid his head on John’s shoulder. “I love you, too, John.” 

They sat there for a long time, both dreading going back to face everyone, but also praying that they’d be able to work up the courage to do so before Sherlock’s parents came to find them. 

Eventually, John sighed. “I suppose I should go back and apologise.” 

“Don’t you dare.” 

“Let’s at least get back to dinner, yeah?” 

“Fine,” Sherlock breathed bitterly, standing and helping John to his feet.


	21. Chapter 21

By the time they came back to the table, there were four empty seats where Wendy and her family had been, and John had to stifle his sigh of relief. 

“Yes, they’re gone,” Mrs. Holmes said, sounding as relieved as he felt. “Hopefully they won’t be back next year, either. Well done, John.” She looked genuinely proud, to John’s sudden amusement. 

Wilson gave him a curious look. It wasn’t unkind, but he seemed to be sizing him up, as though wondering whether this was a one-off occurrence or if John really did care that much about Sherlock. 

The rest of the meal was generally more enjoyable without Wendy’s looming presence. Wilson and Mr. Holmes joked with each other while Sherlock’s grandmother watched them, unimpressed, and Molly giggled at their antics. Uncle Andrew eventually slumped over and began snoring, much to the amusement of everyone else at the table. Sherlock actually ate dinner, cleaned his previously untouched plate, and even took his cracker and donned the hat with relish, which told John how much he enjoyed being rid of Wendy and her whole pompous entourage. 

After dessert, the party moved into the sitting room. Sherlock’s father had placed all of the newcomers’ presents under the tree. Mrs. Holmes reached under and pulled out a number of gifts, tossing them aside ungraciously and eliciting snickers from everyone else. A couple of them even made shattering noises as fragile contents were destroyed, which put a smile on even Mycroft’s face. 

“Now that that’s over,” Mrs. Holmes said, and began handing out presents. 

John soon found that this particular exchange was full of gag gifts more than anything. By its end, Sherlock was surrounded by about fifty toy cauldrons that he would surely melt if he were to actually use them. John and Wilson had spent most of the previous half-hour laughing more and more heartily at the expression on Sherlock’s face as he’d pulled cauldron after cauldron from three different bags. 

“How many of those are from you?” John managed between enduring chuckles. 

“I dunno, at least half of them,” Wilson replied, and their renewed laughter was contagious enough to force Sherlock to join them. 

“What on earth am I going to do with all of these?” 

“Experiments!” Wilson supplied. 

“What about me? What’s this for?” Uncle Andrew slurred, joining in where he found an opening in the conversation. 

“You’re meant to drink from it,” Wilson answered. 

Andrew looked again at the large tumbler-shaped bowl suspiciously, then seemed to get the joke. “Funny. That’s funny,” he muttered good-naturedly, and promptly began snoring. 

Later, Wilson accepted John’s offer to help him drag his father to the curb to hail the Knight Bus. 

“Thanks, John,” Wilson said to him as they made their way up the drive. 

“Don’t mention it. He was great fun. Worth a walk up to the road.” 

“No, that’s not—well, yeah, thanks for that, I suppose. But I meant thanks for, you know…doing what you did for Sherlock. All these years, and I still can’t stand up to that bloody woman. Some Gryffindor I am.” 

John didn’t know what to say, but he knew he didn’t want anyone but Wendy beating themselves up about what happened at dinner, least of all Wilson. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? You had her. Did you see the look on her face? In twenty-two years, I’ve never seen her make that face.” 

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” 

Wilson looked at him, puzzled. “What?” 

“You’ve spent your whole life being intimidated by her.” 

Wilson smiled sadly. “Thank you, though. For…being there for him.” 

“Thanks for being there for him before I was.” 

When Wilson raised his wand arm and the Knight Bus arrived, they shook hands. “It was lovely meeting you, John.” 

“It was lovely meeting you, too. Good luck with your dad.” 

“Oh, I’ll manage him. Good luck with Sherlock.” 

“I’ll manage him.” John smiled.  

“Have a lovely evening, John.” 

John nodded as they boarded the Bus and disappeared.  

+++

“Your family isn’t that bad,” John said to Sherlock once they were alone in his bedroom, pulling on pyjamas. 

“Well, sure, once Wendy left. I told you the rest of them were tolerable.” 

John rolled his eyes. “You know, they’re actually quite lovely.” When Sherlock didn’t say anything, John added, “They really care about you.” 

“I know,” Sherlock replied almost immediately, impatiently. 

John froze in the process of pulling the duvet back. 

Sherlock sighed and made his own way to the bed. “I know they care. They’re constantly caring. They’ve been caring for as long as I can remember. But they’re not always around.” He looked up at John. “You are.” 

John couldn’t keep his heart from swelling with emotion at the rare acknowledgement that he was unique, that Sherlock needed him, that he needed him because he cared enough to laugh with him, made sure he took care of himself and even went to the trouble of defending him even when he himself couldn’t care less about the rude comments he received from classmates that just didn’t understand him, couldn’t see how brilliant he really was. 

John sat on the mattress, stretched his legs out before him, and patted the space next to him. Sherlock sat and immediately wrapped himself around John’s middle. He pressed his face into John’s side and mumbled, “I love you, John.” 

John smiled and smoothed Sherlock’s curls. “D’you have any idea how important you are to me?” 

“I daresay about half as important as you are to me.” 

“So you  _don’t_  know, then.” 

“Shut up.” 

Sherlock’s breathing began to slow. “Sleepy, are we?” 

“Mmmm,” was Sherlock’s only reply. 

“What, no goodnight kiss?” 

As Sherlock pulled himself up to press his lips against John’s sleepily, John laid back against the pillow that had come to be his. 

“Goodnight, John.” 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments make my workdays go by faster, and I work all day tomorrow. See you for New Years with the boys!


	22. Chapter 22

The end of the year flew by, and John was almost surprised to find that it was the the 31st of December. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to remind him that ringing in the New Year with a raucous celebration was pointless, because it meant absolutely nothing, and nothing would change when it came. John didn’t argue. He knew it was true. All it meant to him that the year was ending was that they were that much closer to going back to Hogwarts and not being able to have lie-ins like the one they had that morning. 

“What am I going to do when I don’t get to wake up to your face right there anymore?” John asked as they broke away from a drawn-out, luscious kiss. 

“Perhaps we shouldn’t go back,” Sherlock suggested. 

John laughed and kissed him again. He was about to mention the advantages of never leaving the room ever again when there was a knock at the door. 

“What, Mycroft?” Sherlock barked. 

“Mummy has sent me to tell you to get out of bed and get dressed. Uncle Rudy’s coming to visit.” 

Sherlock groaned. 

“Another relative?” John asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yes. Uncle Rudy. He can’t ever make it to Christmas dinner, so he typically visits a few days later. He’s late this year.” 

In a few minutes the two of them were presentable, though Sherlock’s continued attempts to drag John back to bed using only his lips and his hands teasingly light on his hips hadn’t helped matters. Even as John opened the door to head downstairs, Sherlock pulled him into a heated kiss that only served to frustrate him when John reciprocated enthusiastically, then abruptly turned and bolted down the stairs. 

He reached the foyer long before Sherlock did, so long in fact that he wondered whether Sherlock wasn’t still standing there in shock, contemplating the audacity of leaving him high and dry like that. When Sherlock did finally enter the hall, John had to stifle laughter when he noticed that his boyfriend was wearing a different pair of trousers than the ones he’d originally changed into. Mycroft stared at Sherlock, clearly trying to hide his disgust, which made John’s struggle to contain his mirth much more difficult. 

“Alright?” John whispered when Sherlock approached them. 

“Shut up.” 

“Rudy!” Sherlock’s mother said suddenly, and John looked up at the door just as a man in dark green robes appeared. 

As Uncle Rudy greeted them all and introduced himself warmly to John, John couldn’t help but notice something off about Mycroft, who was eyeing his uncle suspiciously. He and Sherlock followed the others into the den. 

“What’s wrong with Mycroft? Why’s he looking at your uncle like that?” 

“He’s wearing women’s underwear,” Sherlock whispered back, completely deadpan, and John almost stopped in the middle of the doorway. 

“ _Mycroft?_ ” 

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “Uncle Rudy.” 

John didn’t ask how he knew. He assumed the evidence was somewhere in the way the man walked or held himself. He felt his jaw hanging open, however, and struggled to clamp it shut. 

“Please, John, it’s not as though it makes any difference. It’s not like he’s going to strip down to his knickers in the sitting room. It’s not as though it’s news to any of us.” Sherlock said, snapping him out of his shock. 

“I just…wow.” 

Sherlock smirked suddenly. “I wonder how you would react if I told you I’m wearing women’s underwear.” 

“I would know you’re lying. I was in the room when you dressed.” 

Just outside the room, Sherlock pulled John back toward him and hissed in his ear, “Are these the trousers I put on when you were in the room?” Then he slipped past him into the sitting room, leaving John red-faced and wide eyed. 

It occurred to John as he entered, adjusting himself discreetly in his trousers, that this was his repayment for before. Then it occurred to him that he ought to be surprised that the thought of Sherlock in a lacy pair of knickers would turn him on like this. He glared at his boyfriend, who raised an eyebrow innocently. And he realized that anything to do with Sherlock would turn him on if he let it. 

+++

As soon as Uncle Rudy was gone, Sherlock followed John upstairs to his room, smirking to himself. He’d done everything in his power to fluster him throughout the visit, suggesting things with his body language and alluding to the things beneath his trousers—which admittedly,  _weren’t_  women’s underwear, although it wasn’t as though he’d never entertained the idea. The appeal had grown that afternoon as he watched John’s reactions to his insinuations and stored those responses in a special room in his Mind Palace for future reference. He couldn’t wait to experiment under more practical conditions. 

The door hadn’t even clicked shut before John attacked him, biting at his lips and muttering between nips, “You…complete…arse….Do you know...how frustrating it is…for your boyfriend…to flaunt himself…in front of his whole bloody family?” 

“It was hardly my…my whole family,” Sherlock gasped as John’s teeth grazed the sensitive skin under his ear. 

“Right,” John murmured against his skin. “Only your mother, who’s just as observant as you, and your brother, the only person who could beat both of you at deductions.” 

“Oh, please. It’s not as though they didn’t already know the effect I have on you.” 

“Gee, am I really that obvious?” 

“Only to us.” 

“Perfect, my boyfriend’s mother would be able to tell as soon as we came out of his room whether we’d just been shagging. That’s exactly what a man likes to hear.” 

Sherlock almost shrugged, but he was suddenly distracted by the tongue tracing the shell of his ear. Instead he managed, “If it bothers you that much if they know, then we probably shouldn’t.” He recalled with fondness that first time he’d experimented with pleasuring himself, how at breakfast the next morning Mycroft refused to look him directly in the eye. He’d deduced that the same reason Mycroft had been uncomfortable was the same reason that he’d been able to heckle Mycroft’s singing voice all his life. As illustrious as the mansion was, the brothers were not blessed with the luxury of soundproof walls. 

Sherlock didn’t mind. If he did, he would’ve magicked them ages ago. It was nice to be able to eavesdrop on Mycroft whenever he wished, and he could care less what sounds Mycroft heard from his bedroom. But John wasn’t likely to feel the same way. 

“John, I don’t…” 

Immediately, John backed away and cupped Sherlock’s cheek softly. “What’s wrong?” 

“You don’t want to do this right now.” 

“What?” 

Sherlock sighed and walked away. He sat down on the edge of his bed. “You don’t want to have sex with me right now.” 

John looked startled. “That’s not—Sherlock, what are you talking about?” 

Sherlock stared at him. “I’m…vocal.” 

John’s eyebrows pinched together as he glanced around, bewildered. His eyes went wide as his mind processed Sherlock’s words at what Sherlock  perceived as an infuriating snail’s pace. 

“And that’s without a partner. I’m curious about how different it would actually be with someone else, but I’m sure you’d rather not take the chance, what with—” 

John held up a finger, and Sherlock realized he’d been rambling, helplessly falling into a panic that he couldn’t fully explain. “Sherlock,” John said suddenly, and their eyes met. “That’s not—I wasn’t…” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the way he always did when something was bothering him. “Sherlock, I didn’t expect things to go any further than a really good snog.” 

“Fine. That’s—that’s good. Right.” 

John shook his head, suddenly smiling, and sat next to Sherlock. “Sometimes you’re really funny when you get stuck in your own head.” 

“Funny?” Sherlock hissed, mystified. 

John kissed Sherlock’s nose and lay back against the pillows. “Come here.” 

Sherlock toed off his shoes and obliged, curling up next to him and letting him kiss his hair. 

“Let’s get these clothes off, yeah? I’m not sleeping in my jeans.” 

Sherlock helped John out of his shirt and jeans, relieved for his own sake that his vest stayed on, and John returned the favor, muttering an amused, “I knew it,” when he saw Sherlock’s pants. Sherlock snickered. 

If John had kissed him urgently before, he kissed him sweetly now, with gentle presses of lips to any part of Sherlock’s face that caught his attention. Sherlock kissed back, mirroring everything that John did, hoping to get across everything that John managed to silently convey with his lips, to show that everything he knew that John felt was reciprocated in full, and that there was no activity that he wouldn’t at least tolerate, so long as John was there, but that sex was definitely nowhere on the spectrum of simple ‘toleration,’ no matter what his actions may have implied. 

“So. Vocal, you said?” 

Sherlock smiled. “Shut up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, friends! I'll see you again in a few days. (The Holmesidays aren't quite over yet.)


	23. Chapter 23

“Sherlock, if you’re not down here in five minutes, we’re leaving without you,” Mrs. Holmes called for the third time. 

John knew she wouldn’t. This whole outing was for Sherlock’s birthday, after all. No one had told John where they were going, but he was inclined to believe it would be something unexpected. This was Sherlock they were talking about. 

Which was why they had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs for nearly twenty minutes, without a word from Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, I’m warning you…” 

“Perhaps if I went up to get him?” John suggested, and mounted the stairs. He’d awoken that morning much as he had on other occasions, with Sherlock nowhere to be found. He wasn’t worried; there was no telling where Sherlock had gone to play his violin, or perhaps sit and think. He only hoped he was in his room now, dragging his feet just to annoy his mother. 

“Sherlock?” When he reached the landing, Sherlock’s bedroom door was open wide, and Sherlock himself was sitting at his desk, quill in hand and scratching away at a piece of parchment. “Sherlock—” 

At the sound of John in the doorway, Sherlock jumped and threw his arms over the parchment in front of him.  

John looked at him suspiciously. “Sherlock, we were meant to leave ten minutes ago…or so your mother says….What are you doing?” 

“Nothing, John,” he replied, quickly folding up the parchment and stuffing it into his jacket pocket. 

“Alright, sure. Ready?” 

Sherlock nodded, standing. He was dressed in what John could only assume was his typical Muggle-friendly attire, a dark suit which fit him a little too well, perfectly tailored to hug the sharp lines of his shoulders, not to mention the curve of his behind. John would have felt underdressed in his typical jeans and jumper if he didn’t know that Sherlock’s father was dressed similarly. He snorted. Of course Sherlock dressed this way outside of school—he was much too posh for his own good. 

As they took their cloaks from the hooks in the foyer, Sherlock also reached up onto a shelf that John doubted he would have been able to reach, retrieving a strange hat similar to one John remembered finding in the attic when he was a child. 

“Why do you have that?” he asked as Sherlock placed it on his head, clearly disgusted with himself for doing so. 

“I found it in a Muggle shop. Ridiculous, isn’t it?” 

“Well…yeah. But why are you wearing it?” 

“I found it in a Muggle shop. Didn’t you hear me?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I heard you.” 

Without another word, Sherlock took his hand. John looked up at him, amused and wondering how often Sherlock actually got out into the Muggle world. 

John was surprised when they stepped out of the house and found a cab waiting for them. 

“No Knight Bus?” he asked. 

“No. We found out the hard way last year that, as it turns out, the driver of the Knight Bus does not know where a Muggle park might be located.” 

John didn’t know what was more shocking, the fact that Ernie didn’t know how to get to a park or that they were actually  _going_  to a park. He couldn’t keep himself from asking why as they stepped into the cab and shut the door behind them. With Mycroft in the front seat, the back seat was still crowded, and John found himself half sitting on Sherlock’s lap, and blushing because he was also no more than a foot away from the boy’s parents. 

“Because Muggles fascinate me,” Sherlock clarified before John could ask, paying no mind to the fact that John was literally on top of him. “They’re so strangely intelligent, non-magical people. Have you seen some of the technologies they’ve developed to cope with the absence of magical abilities? It’s truly extraordinary.” 

“So we’re going to go…watch Muggles?” 

“Not just watch Muggles, John, though that is part of it. I’d also like to spend a great deal of time studying some of the non-magical specimen which inhabit the park.” 

John shook his head. “Sherlock Holmes, you amaze me more and more every day.” 

+++

At the park, John amused himself by watching Sherlock studying beehives and the devices Muggles constantly used to communicate with each other (which John had to admit  _were_  quite extraordinary). 

Sherlock was extremely preoccupied with watching a woman on a bench from behind a tree when Mr. Holmes took a seat next to John on his own bench. “He is a funny lad.”

“‘Funny’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. ‘Mad’ is closer.” 

Mr. Holmes laughed. “You are the sane one.” 

“Aren’t you?” John replied, raising an eyebrow. 

“I suppose. But then, I married Violet, didn’t I? I suppose that makes me mad as well.” 

“I suppose.” John smirked. 

“But perhaps love makes us mad,” Mr. Holmes continued, and John felt himself go a bit red. “I’ll let you in on a secret, though.” He leaned in and stage-whispered, “It’s the best kind of madness there is. Of course,” he went on, sitting up straight again and carrying on in a casual tone, “you already knew that.” 

John stared at Sherlock, who was scribbling away on the spare parchment he’d brought along and glancing with determined purpose at the woman opposite them, who had suddenly brought the small communication device to her ear and begun speaking into it just as they’d seen countless others do today. He smiled. “Yes, I do.” 

“You may not see it since he’s so odd to begin with, but he’s mad for you, too.” 

“I know.” John did know that. He knew that Sherlock and Violet—geniuses, with a bit of madness to supplement it beautifully—loved perhaps more deeply than most, they simply weren’t likely to change their behavior in the face of emotion. It was a defense mechanism—not because they were overly vulnerable. No, that wasn’t it. It was to protect the functionality of the mind and keep it separate from distraction. So when Sherlock experienced a surge of emotion, it was expressed as a particularly grueling Potions studying session or a long, drawn-out case that would stretch on for days. The addition of more madness to the already unfathomable lack of sanity was only noticed by the one who craved it to begin with. 

And God, did John crave it. If John had to pin down one thing about Sherlock that he loved most, it would be his utter disgust for conforming to those around him, even his own family. He somehow stood out from them, not aloof like Mycroft or his grandmother, not kind and relaxed like his father or Wilson, not even leaderly and proud like his mother or aunt. It was as though he had forged himself from their best qualities and formed a new type of Holmes—a new type of human being—with the help of their influence. And John could very well say that he would continue to love the Sherlock that Sherlock had created, if not simply because he loves the creation, then because the creation was Sherlock’s, and Sherlock could do no wrong. At least, not majorly wrong. 

Sherlock had abandoned his post behind the tree and was swiftly approaching them. “Having fun?” his father called to him. 

Sherlock smirked. “Loads.” He stopped in front of them. “Where’s Mummy?” 

“She and Mycroft went for coffee.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed for a split second before smoothing out smugly and saying, “No, they didn’t.” 

Mr. Holmes just smiled and shook his head. 

“They’re off getting a present, are they?” 

“Of course,” came Mycroft’s voice from behind him. He carried a small package, which he handed to Sherlock. 

It turned out to be some sort of exotic root that Sherlock had apparently been looking for in any shop he came across for the past two years. Naturally, he feigned casual interest, but insisted that their excursion was over and that they should go home now. 

He ignored the fond smiles of each of his companions as they all climbed into another cab. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have a deerstalker appearance, of course.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, two chapters tonight!

Sherlock was upstairs almost as soon as the front door opened. John knew he would be occupied with his new ‘toy’ for a few hours, so instead of following him, he stood in the foyer. 

Sherlock’s mother approached him. “Would you like me to show you something?” she asked. 

Intrigued by the glint in her eyes, he nodded. She led him to a cozier den than the sitting room they typically occupied and pulled a book from a bookcase in the corner. “These are from the boys’ early years,” she told him, taking a seat on the sofa. 

John sat beside her, suddenly curious. He watched raptly as she opened the album and he was greeted by a wary child swaddled in a white blanket. Baby Mycroft blinked up at them icily, as though he had insisted the photograph not be taken. John almost laughed. 

Turning the page, there was another picture of Mycroft, a bit older, reluctantly smiling toothlessly. It was incredible how little he’d changed, John thought. 

Then Mrs. Holmes said, “Let’s skip along to the ones you’re interested in,” and with a wink, flipped several pages at once, landing on another infant. Sherlock waved up from the page, sixteen years younger, with a radiant grin stretching his chubby face. He seemed to realize that the person behind the camera was vaguely familiar. 

“He was only a few weeks old in that one,” his mother said, and turned to another that seemed to have been taken on the same day. In this one, a tiny Mycroft sat beside his brother, poking at his cheek curiously as Sherlock regarded him, no longer grinning. 

They continued perusing the photos from Sherlock’s childhood. Mrs. Holmes told him stories that made them both laugh and that would probably turn Sherlock’s whole head into a radish if he were in the room. 

“This is from his seventh birthday.” She indicated a young Sherlock tearing open a gift—a rather large cauldron, one that he could easily have curled up and slept in if he’d so desired. John gazed at Sherlock’s face, committing the wonder and excitement to memory. He just barely stopped himself from reaching out to touch the photograph. 

Soon Sherlock appeared in the doorway. At the sight of his mother and his boyfriend sat on the sofa with a book of pictures from his early life, he stopped. 

“I told you not to show him those!” he complained, color already tinting his cheeks and ears. 

“Well what do you expect, experimenting with those bloody potions all evening and neglecting your poor boyfriend?” 

“It is  _my_  birthday. Shouldn’t I be able to do what I want?” 

“Oh, hush.” Mrs. Holmes returned her attention to the album. 

Sherlock sighed and joined them on the sofa just as a photograph from some picnic became visible. 

“Oh, this is…say, how old were you there, Sherlock?” 

“Nine.” 

“Right! Well, right near the picnic, there was a nest of salamanders, just off to the right there. And of course, Sherlock went after the things. Got some nasty burns along his arm, poor dear.” 

“Dad’s rather good at healing charms,” Sherlock said to John, holding out an arm with no trace that it had ever been anything but completely healthy. John looked over at him and smiled. 

“Good thing, too,” Mrs. Holmes said, breaking into their moment, tearing down the heavy eye contact that had been drawing John toward Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently at her interruption. 

She continued with the rest of the story, how Sherlock had tried to put out a salamander’s fire with just one small bucket of water, but John had to admit that he was losing interest. It probably had something to do with Sherlock invading his space, pressing his thigh against John’s. By the time the story of the picnic salamanders had ended and the page was turned, Sherlock’s chin rested casually on John’s shoulder, and his arms had looped themselves around John’s waist discreetly. 

When the album’s supply of stories was exhausted and Mrs. Holmes rose to retrieve another, John used the chance to say, “You’re trying to distract me.” 

“It’s working.” 

“Piss off, I’m hearing about your childhood.” 

“Boring. Come upstairs.” 

“In a bit. I’m not done hearing embarrassing stories.” 

“But John, it’s my birthday!” 

“No it’s not.” 

“It may as well be,” Sherlock replied, frustrated. John laughed. “And you haven’t even given me a gift yet.” 

“Who’s to say I wouldn’t rather give it to you on your actual birthday?” John teased, knowing full well that there was no way he could keep the parcel’s location—or its contents—from Sherlock for much longer. 

Sherlock knew that he didn’t need to point that out, so instead he smirked and kissed John roughly. 

John immediately panicked at the intensity of it, pushed him away. “ _Sherlock!_ ” he hissed, glancing over to the bookcase, only to find that Mrs. Holmes had left the room. He shook his head. “She’s just as bad as you are.” 

“She understands very little, but she can take a hint on occasion.” 

John thought that she probably understood a great deal more than Sherlock gave her credit for, but that, like him, she was simply stubborn. 

Sherlock tilted his head and pressed his nose to John’s neck. John felt Sherlock’s chest expand against him as he breathed deeply, then felt the cool breath at his pulse point as he exhaled. 

“D’you still want to go upstairs?” John asked, breathless, as Sherlock pressed his lips against his neck. 

“I think the den will do nicely,” Sherlock whispered in reply. 

“Don’t you…don’t you want your gift?” 

“It can wait.” Sherlock flipped himself around and straddled John’s thighs. His mouth never left John’s neck for more than a split second at a time. “I’d rather just kiss you right now.” 

“You’re doing a fine job of it,” John laughed. He carded a hand through Sherlock’s curls and pressed the other to the small of his back. “I suppose that’s nothing new.” 

He’d gotten used to the feeling of Sherlock’s signature smirk against his skin, and was unsurprised to feel it now. He’d also learned over the past couple of weeks that complementing Sherlock’s technique while snogging only served to heighten his enthusiasm. The smirk melted into more fervor immediately. 

The eagerness with which Sherlock kissed him was as endearing as it was arousing. The contrasting sensations of his heart fluttering lightly and blood rushing hotly through his veins sent him into a frenzy which left him clawing at Sherlock’s shoulder blades, the silk of his dressing gown sliding under his fingers and long, wheezing breaths stuttering. 

It ended the way it always did. Sherlock, after driving John completely mad, declared that he was bored, and that if they weren’t going to go any further, he would rather check up on his experiments and receive his gift from John. Then he hurried from the room, and John had no choice but to follow. 

“Sherlock Holmes, I’m going to kill you!” he practically shouted after him. 

“No you won’t,” Sherlock replied calmly, his head popping out from around the corner. 

 “You realize this is our last night, right? We go back to Hogwarts tomorrow.” 

“Then we’d best make the most of it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, that's the end of our holiday fun. We'll go back to every other weekend now, starting the 17th of January. How appropriate that Sherlock's birthday falls on the day before my spring classes start! The beginning of my semester would certainly be better with a comment or two (she said sheepishly).


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'd be back!

The first week they spent back at Hogwarts was, for Sherlock, utter torture. If he was being completely honest with himself, he had lost interest in Moriarty, so there was very little to distract him from not being able to drag John up to his bedroom any time he felt like it. Perhaps that was why the ongoing case was boring him—he spent every spare moment thinking up more and more far-fetched ways to sneak up to Gryffindor Tower, a much more pressing matter to him at the moment. 

John, meanwhile, with OWL exams on the horizon, was under more stress than ever. Much to Sherlock’s frustration, the stress wasn’t for the sake of Potions. In fact, John “hadn’t ever done so well in Potions,” he told Sherlock nearly every day. He would peck him on the cheek and thank him each time, and Sherlock had to resist dragging him into the nearest classroom and jumping him, regardless of whether it was empty or not. 

The first Hogsmeade weekend of the new term had never been more welcome, and Sherlock leapt at the chance to drag John away from his wretched schoolbooks. 

“You’re going into Hogsmeade with me tomorrow,” Sherlock said suddenly across the table they’d inhabited in the library for the past few evenings. 

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I’ve got an essay due for Flitwick and I have to practice with the Snargaluffs if I’m ever going to pass the Herbology practical, and—” 

“Come on, John. We could go to the Shrieking Shack. Ridiculous to think it’s haunted, but it is a rather interesting old building. We could break in.” 

“Sherlock—” 

“John,  _please_ ,” Sherlock whined, reaching out to John with both arms, resting his chin on the table, and adopting his most pathetic look. 

John sighed, taking Sherlock’s hands in his own gently and conceding a small smile. “Alright. But don’t you dare try to distract me on Sunday. I really do have to finish that essay.” 

Sherlock nodded his typical “I’m-not-making-any-promises-but-I’ll-at-least-make-a-minimal-effort” nod. He let his head slump forward onto the table, and John ruffled his hair. He sighed contentedly at the touch. 

After a moment, the scratching of John’s quill ceased once more and he said, “Hang on. This isn’t some ridiculous ‘Third Date’ plan, is it?” 

Sherlock’s head shot up. “Of course not.” 

John smirked. “Sure.” 

“I miss you,” Sherlock protested, and John laughed at his indignant tone. 

“I know. I miss you, too.” 

“No you don’t.” 

“What? Sherlock, yes I do.” 

“Then stop studying so much.” 

“Sherlock, OWLs are important.” 

“To you, maybe. I would much rather be spending my time with you than doing  _classwork_.” 

“But you are spending time with me.” 

“Not enough.” 

John searched for something else to say. “Why don’t you work on the case, then?” 

Sherlock glared at him. “The case is boring.” 

“ _Boring_? Christ, Sherlock, the guy tried to—” 

John was beginning to shout, so Sherlock shushed him. 

“…the guy tried to feed me to the giant squid,” John continued at a whisper, “and you think the case is  _boring_?” 

Sherlock didn’t like to think about that night, but he knew that John had a point. He also knew that if he were to immerse himself in a case of this magnitude, the little time he did spend with John would be lost. 

“I’ll work on it,” he grumbled, which seemed to appease John, because he directed his attention straight back to the parchment in front of him without pursuing the subject. 

+++

Once they had arrived in Hogsmeade the next day, Sherlock had insisted on going straight to the abandoned Shrieking Shack. A few other students stood near them, studying the dingy building from afar. Sherlock and John were by far the closest, a position which no one else seemed to have any desire to usurp. 

“What do you think, Sherlock?” 

“Dunno. I’ve always wanted to go inside.” 

“Why haven’t you?” Sherlock definitely wasn’t one to deny himself the finer pleasures in life, particularly when those pleasures had to do with breaking and entering. John had caught him trying to guess the password to the Gryffindor common room the night before. Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall was well-suited to thinking up passwords that even the great Sherlock Holmes had trouble deducing. John had found him shouting abuse at the Fat Lady, presumably to vent his frustration with his fruitless efforts. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You think I could go alone? There may not be wild creatures or ghosts particularly fond of loud and violent revelry, but I’m certain there will be security measures in place to keep people out.” 

“Yeah, well, perhaps that’s a good thing,” John muttered, feeling his stomach sink at the look of the crumbling façade. 

“Are you frightened, John?” 

“God, no. I’m just a bit worried it might collapse.” 

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed. “See those beams there, and the structure of the foundation? No, this building was built to last. More than that, to contain something. Something destructive.” 

“But why do you need me?” 

“An extra set of eyes is invaluable to me, John.” 

“Not to mention you’d need an escape plan if you happened to get yourself caught in some sort of burglar’s trap.” 

Sherlock bit his lip. “Well, yes.” 

“So I’m your escape plan?” 

“You say it as if it’s news to you.” 

“It is news to me. Not everything is as obvious to everyone as it is to you,” John pointed out bitterly. 

“I can’t see how it should be. You’re always my escape plan.” 

John couldn’t contain his amusement. It was true—he was the one most likely to pull Sherlock out of danger, the one most likely to get him out of trouble for breaking his mother’s oft-broken-and-secretly-repaired vase, and the only one he’d willingly step away from casework for. 

“Bloody hell, let’s go,” John finally said, marching off toward the old house, knowing Sherlock would follow. 

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to find a way in, but the entrance he found was by no means easily accessible to anyone shorter than Sherlock himself. John was pondering the likelihood of actually securing a firm grip on the sill that Sherlock had effortlessly hoisted his lanky form over when a pair of hands reached down and grasped his wrists. With Sherlock’s help, he climbed the wall and ducked through the window. 

They wandered through the house in silence, dodging the minimal security measures that looked as though they wouldn’t have held up even if they worked, they were so ancient. John decided that the house was probably being held up by nothing but magic. He was just about to say so when Sherlock suddenly went stiff beside him. 

“Sherlock?” 

He only shushed him in response, frighteningly serious. 

Stepping toward a door on the far side of the landing they now found themselves on, Sherlock beckoned for John to remain just behind him. Slowly, he turned the doorknob and pushed. 

“Well, hello.” 

John froze, his fists clenched at his sides. He resisted the urge to take hold of Sherlock’s cloak and drag him from the building as he heard, for the first time in ages, an Irish lilt that put the sour taste of lake water in his mouth and made him want to turn and run. 

“It’s good to see you, Sherlock.” 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock replied, not hostile, but certainly not friendly. 

“You’re ignoring me, Sherlock,” Jim said. He twirled his wand between his fingers while his other hand rested casually in his pocket. John almost asked him where he’d come by the audacity to act as though their last encounter hadn’t held the potential for murder by giant squid. 

“You told me to, though, didn’t you?” Sherlock countered. 

“Oh, now, Sherlock, we both know that was just a test. A test you seem to be failing, if you think I was actually serious.” 

Of course he’d been ignoring Moriarty, John thought. He hadn’t done anything of note since their return to school. Still, Sherlock failed to point this out, which was cause for concern. After a moment, John realized that Sherlock still hadn’t said anything. If Sherlock wasn’t taunting this maniac about being too boring to bother with, then… 

“Sherlock.” 

“Not now, John.” 

“Sherlock, what’ve you—” 

“Now’s not the time.” 

“That’s right, Johnny Boy. Mummy and Daddy are speaking,” Moriarty broke in. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded. 

“I’m checking in on you. You haven’t been answering my owls.” 

“You haven’t sent me any owls.” The chill in Sherlock’s voice was a solid reminder to John of who his brother was. 

“Well, no. No literal ones.” 

Again, Sherlock had nothing to say, and John looked at him suspiciously. 

Suddenly, John found himself being pushed face-first against the wall. He struggled, but the arms that held him captive were strong, and he remembered with a sigh that Moran had always been able to hit a Bludger much further than he could. Sherlock made no move to help him, so he assumed that Moran had drawn his wand as well. 

“I’m getting bored, Sherlock,” Moriarty went on calmly. 

“And what do you expect me to do about that?” Sherlock countered, the slightest trace of panic weaving itself into the words. 

“Start answering my owls,” the other replied, more dangerous than before. More than a challenge, it was a command. 

Moriarty prowled to the door and snapped his fingers. John was released as suddenly as he’d been restrained. By the time he turned around, already taking a defensive position, the only other person in the room was Sherlock, staring at him with the most sincere of apologies in his eyes. John slumped against the wall. 

“John, I—” 

“Stop.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. There have been a few suspicious things recently that I just—” 

“Sherlock, stop.” 

He finally did stop talking, but continued to stand there, looking sheepish. John let him stand there for a long time before sighing. 

“Come here,” he said. When Sherlock obliged, he pulled him in for a bruising kiss. “It’s alright.” He kissed him again, longer and deeper. “But, for the record, let’s not get threatened again. Because it seems to always be me that gets the bad end of that deal.” 

Sherlock chuckled, finally returning to his cocky self at the acceptance of his apology. He smirked. “Well, you know what this has been.” 

John rolled his eyes. “So this  _was_  some ridiculous Third Date plan.” 

“It was the perfect opportunity.” 

“I knew it.” 

Sherlock pressed their lips together. “So, do you think we could….” 

“Sherlock, I’m not having sex for the first time in any place called the ‘Shrieking Shack.’” 

“Of course not.” He took John’s hand. “I know just the place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I mentioned that Jim would be back, too...


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know where that last chapter was going. Here's that M rating.

Sherlock dragged John through the door to the Room of Requirement as soon as it appeared and threw him back against it as it closed, losing the last of his self-control now that there was what would appear to be a blank stretch of wall separating them from the rest of the school. The way his lips moved against John’s lips, his jaw, his neck, nearly made John’s knees give out. 

“Sher—” He cut himself off with a groan when Sherlock reached in between them to palm his erection, and he had to force himself not to melt into a puddle at the other boy’s feet. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been waiting for this. He’d been so patient without even knowing, but now that it was actually happening there was no going back. His own hand found the bulge at the front of Sherlock’s trousers and squeezed lightly in return. 

He glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder just as his head fell forward to nip at John’s ear lobe and saw something that would have made him laugh out loud if there weren’t clever fingers running along the length of his clothed prick. 

“What?” Sherlock panted through kisses to John’s neck, sensing his amused distraction. 

“It looks like even the school wants us to shag.” 

Sherlock broke away and looked at him, puzzled, before turning and finally spotting the rather large, luxurious bed against the back wall. He turned back to John. “Oh.” 

John smiled. “Come on.” His body vaguely protested when he took the hand that was teasing him in order to lead the body attached to it. 

Standing next to the miraculous bed that had simply appeared in the room, John placed his hands on Sherlock’s chest and kissed him again, letting himself be enveloped by the warmth of the arms that settled around him easily, as they had hundreds of times before. This time, though, there was an electric current there that ran straight through to the skin of his back, unimpeded by the layers of cloth between source and destination. 

He felt Sherlock shudder as he let John’s tongue explore just past his lips. It was met with a whimper from John as Sherlock simultaneously sucked at John’s tongue and allowed his hands to drift, exploring John’s clothed body in a way they never had, full of cautious hope and anticipation and the feeling of walls not being knocked down at once, but being torn down brick by brick. He rubbed John’s shoulder blades and massaged his lower back and slid a firm line up each of his sides reverently, as though he’d memorized the surface with all of the feather-light touches of the past but was finally being given the chance to understand the precise way John’s muscles tensed and relaxed under his hands. 

John found himself reaching down to tug Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers and let his thumbs rest against the bare skin beneath it as he laid his hands on Sherlock’s hips and continued to work his lips against Sherlock’s in earnest. Sherlock finally did the same, though he didn’t stop with hands on hips. Instead, he began to loosen John’s tie and unbutton his shirt. The layers of the top half of John’s school uniform were soon discarded to a pile a few feet away. John made sure Sherlock’s were quick to join them. 

They barely broke apart to sit on the edge of the bed, and only really stopped snogging each other senseless when Sherlock pressed a hand to John’s chest, pushing him down onto the pillows gently. He looked down at him, suddenly uncertain. “Are you sure you want this?” 

“Are you?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Then bloody hell, yes!” John laughed, and Sherlock smiled one of his rare genuine smiles before capturing John’s mouth again, a hand flying to the zip of his trousers. 

Both pairs of trousers were shed, then both pairs of pants, and Sherlock’s skin was flush against John’s, and god, if that didn’t make him feel like the luckiest person in the world. He closed his eyes, letting Sherlock seep into him through every pore. 

“John?” Sherlock said suddenly, and John’s eyes snapped open. Sherlock was looking down at him again, concerned. “Is something wrong?” 

He grinned, shook his head. “Of course not. Come here,” he said, using both hands to pull Sherlock’s head down and kiss him deeply once more, just as Sherlock shifted his hips. They both gasped against each other as they aligned at the movement, and Sherlock’s hips stuttered another seemingly involuntary thrust. 

Both went completely still, unsure what to do, wanting to prolong the experience but at the same time having to fight the urge to rut against each other, seeking release. They stared at each other, the unspoken question floating between them. 

“How about…I’ll just, um...” Sherlock stammered, lifting a hand from where it lingered at John’s waist and reaching between them awkwardly, but still not touching himself or John. 

As always, it was as though Sherlock’s mind had transferred all of his usual confidence to John once things had come to a certain point. John smiled warmly before bringing Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, thoroughly licking his palm, and wrapping it around them both. He guided and encouraged the first few strokes until he couldn’t anymore. His brain was beginning to short-circuit at the feeling of Sherlock touching him in a way he never had before, and although his own hand didn’t fall away completely, his grip went slack as his jaw and his eyes searched for Sherlock’s wildly. When they met, the sensations seemed to intensify tenfold, and he thrust up into Sherlock’s hand unconsciously. 

This was Sherlock. Sherlock, gasping, groaning, practically shouting incoherent strings of profanities peppered with John’s name. Sherlock staring at him with pupils blown wide and curls somehow sticking up on end, even though John couldn’t remember ever carding his fingers through them. Sherlock ghosting fingers along John’s ribs while his other hand worked to bring them off together. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, and it was a much more gentle sound than he would have thought possible, with the pleasure unfurling intensely throughout his entire body. “God, Sherlock,” he murmured again as he came, a little more hoarsely as his voice cracked. Sherlock tensed above him and cried out, his own orgasm drawn from him at the sound. 

Sherlock immediately collapsed onto his side and nestled against John, his head on John’s chest. The two of them were silent for a long while, letting their heart rates return to normal and enjoying the feeling of being so near each other. 

“You weren’t kidding,” John said finally. 

“Hmm?” 

“You  _are_  vocal.” 

John felt Sherlock’s laugh as nothing more than a puff of air against his bare abdomen. “I can’t really say the same in regards to you.” 

John's cheeks went red, but he still smiled. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself.” 

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, I’m certain of that.” He seemed to consider something for a moment, as though it had only just occurred to him. “No one’s ever said my name that way before.” 

“Well, I should hope not, considering you said—” 

“No, I just…I’ve never heard it so—it was nice. It was…good.” 

John gazed fondly down at Sherlock’s furrowed brow. He smoothed it by stroking Sherlock’s hair. 

Sherlock rolled over to retrieve his wand from the pile of robes on the floor and silently swept their mess away. John was too content to protest the use of magic for something so simple, not to mention his eyelids were becoming heavier as the minutes ticked by. Before long he and Sherlock were wrapped up in each other and breathing heavily in sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that's a little more than I'm used to writing. I can fluff things up or tear things down with angst, but I'm just so sheltered and never know which words to use for smut without making it sound totally cliche. Hope it wasn't too...I don't know. Still self-conscious about it.
> 
> But I don't know if I've really thanked you guys for reading my lowly fic. At this point, about halfway through, I'd like to do that. Thanks. Every time there's a new bookmark or comment I smile like an idiot. So thank you.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, lovelies!

John had made Sherlock swear to focus on Moriarty, which proved more difficult than ever, as all suspicious activity in the school—Moriarty’s “owls”—had  all but ceased to exist in a definite light. Sherlock had long ago realized it was all a game. “And not one I’m willing to play,” he added when he mentioned this to John at dinner one night.

“You’re going to  _have  _to play it, Sherlock.”

“He’s not going to play fair.”

“Then neither will you.”

Sherlock searched for the telling twitch of John’s eyelid, the disheartening doubt in his own words reflected in the way his focus shifted, but never found it. Instead there was a determined steadiness to the gaze that Sherlock met. John was not making a joke, and he was certainly not backing down from the belief that Sherlock would do what it took to stop Moriarty doing anyone any serious harm.   


“How’re things, chaps?” Harry said as she sat down, putting a sudden end to their meaningful stare.

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered, returning his attention to his neglected potatoes.

She gave John a puzzled look. His response was to shrug with feigned nonchalance that only Sherlock seemed to see through.

Harry shrugged much more casually. “McGonagall’s wondering when you’re planning on having this Dueling Club meeting you’ve been rallying for,” she told John, who groaned.

“I’m busy preparing for exams, I don’t have  _time _ for a Dueling Club.”

“Hey, you dug yourself into this hole, little brother. Besides, exams are  _ages_ away,” Harry scoffed. “And she’s not the only one who wants to know when it’s going to get started. Honestly, I’m looking forward to it myself.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who stared at him pointedly.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll figure something out.”

Harry grinned. “Good man.” She patted him on the back and stood.

“Where are you going?” John asked her.

“Going to eat with Clara,” she and Sherlock said at the same time.

Harry looked at Sherlock, who added, “Obviously.”

She turned to John. “Bloody hell, I’ll never get used to that.”

“Nor will I,” John replied. Sherlock shared his amused smirk.

“What tipped you off this time?” Harry asked.

“Don’t,” John warned, only too aware of how quickly Sherlock’s deductions could become more than brutally honest.

“Oh, what’s the harm? Go on, Holmes.”

“Brand new earrings and a tighter shirt than you usually wear. Shorter skirt, too. You’ve been anticipating it all day, which explains why your nails have been recently polished but chewed since. You want to impress her, but you’re nervous. For as long as you’ve been with her, that means you’ve had a fight, and that you’re aware that you are at fault. Am I wrong?”

Sherlock had delivered this speech in his usual rapid-fire manner, and by the time he’d finished, Harry’s jaw was clenched. She looked as though she wanted to hit him, but that she knew she’d asked for it. John wouldn’t have been ashamed to admit that he relished that look. After all, he’d warned her, hadn’t he?

“No, that’s…that’s exactly right,” Harry muttered, and then marched off to the Hufflepuff table without another word.

“She’s never going to ask you to deduce her again.”

“Like that’ll stop me.”

“You didn’t deduce the fight, though.”

“Of course not, the whole castle could hear them going at it last night.”

John sighed. “Harry’s been smuggling  Firewhisky into Gryffindor Tower again.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said.

John put his face in his hands. “I do not need this right now,” he groaned.

“Clara will take care of it. She has before.”

John’s head shot upward. “How did you—? Never mind.”

"Perhaps you  _should_ establish a Dueling Club meeting. Then she'd have a distraction."

"And you know all about distractions, don't you?" John shot back.

Sherlock looked startled for the blink of an eye before composing his features and glaring coldly back at John. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I should cut back on some of my  _distractions_ ," he muttered, then he stood and marched toward the door.

"Fine," John grumbled to himself. He decided now was probably the time to go to McGonagall's office. He'd deal with his boyfriend's childishness later.

Of course, he knew he was being childish as well. As far as he knew, Moriarty hadn't left anything for Sherlock to go by, but it was still unsettling that Sherlock could discuss normal things like a Dueling Club when he was supposed to be focused on the maniac that had threatened both of them more than once. He sighed and made a mental note to  apologise by giving him the coveted password to Gryffindor Tower if he managed to corner him in the dungeons that night.

+++

As soon as he'd stormed off, Sherlock wished that he had just let it go. John was admittedly under quite a bit of stress from their classmates, who seemed just as excited as Harry about the prospect of using potentially dangerous magic outside of class, even with supervision. Sherlock himself had to admit that it would be a great opportunity for him to practice his skills in a relatively safe environment, a growing necessity with the danger of Moriarty always looming.

John had struck a nerve simply because Sherlock didn't know where to start. There were so many odd occurrences, so many anonymous misdemeanors which, even without the obstacle of being virtually untraceable, were also being mysteriously overlooked by the headmistress, or any other teacher, for that matter. Sherlock noted many classmates whose appearances in lessons became less frequent, few of whom received any discipline for their absence. Even Professor Gregson allowed students to blatantly cheat on exams, something which only Sherlock seemed to notice, let alone find strange.

Mycroft was no longer any help. He was at a loss for news of misdeeds, simply because news wasn't coming in. No teachers and few Prefects were reporting misbehavior, the exceptions being the fifth-year Prefects from Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw. The older students seemed to no longer care about the safety of their fellows, which was disconcerting, to say the least.

Sherlock was used to keeping his head down while investigating in order to avoid the constant watch of the faculty. The trouble was, he didn't think he was going  _have  _to work to hide anything from themmuch longer.

+++

It turned out that John didn't have to go looking for Sherlock in the middle of one of his experiments, because when he stepped down from the moving staircase that led to McGonnagall's study, he found the other boy leaning against the wall with his palms pressed together, fingers under his chin. He was facing away from John with his profile visible, seemingly staring down the corridor, though John knew the thinking face if there ever was one.

"Hey," he said, walking toward him and touching the small of his back gently. "Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I've just got so much going on...and...Sherlock?" He became aware that Sherlock wasn't paying him any attention, just looking off with glassy eyes. "Sherlock."

Still no response, just the puffs of air that meant Sherlock was still alive, despite his unblinking gaze.

John poked him in the ribs. "Sherlock."

There was a sudden gasp and Sherlock turned to him as though he'd just realized John was there. "How on earth would a second-year get himself pummeled by the Whomping Willow by accident?"

"What?" John asked, taken aback.

"There's no evidence to support there being anyone else at the scene, though he believes he was pushed."

"Why don't you ask him?" John suggested, aware that, being completely ignorant of the case Sherlock was trying to crack, he was probably saying something moronic, in Sherlock's eyes at least.

If this was true, Sherlock took it with an abnormal amount of grace. "I have. Can't get anything else out of him. He's in hysterics. Or shock. One of those pedestrian things like that."

John didn't remind him of the rather large spider that had startled Sherlock himself to near tears two nights before. He did roll his eyes, though. "Well, while you try to work through that, why don't we take a walk up to Gryffindor Tower?"

Sherlock finally turned to fully face him. "Y-you mean...in fact..."

"Yes," John said impatiently, taking his hand and starting down the corridor.

Sherlock smirked. "How long until everyone returns?"

John turned his head to look at him, but never stopped walking. "Not sure. Half an hour, maybe."

They both grinned and took off at a run.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, it's a Potterlock weekend!

John sighed, ready to settle in and nod off after being thoroughly disheveled and debauched by a no longer preoccupied Sherlock, and disheveling and debauching him in return, but instead he forced himself to be the reasonable one. "Sherlock, we're going to have to sneak you back out of here soon." 

Sherlock's only reply was to bury his face further into John's pillow. 

"Seriously, Sherlock, someone could be up any minute." He pinched the bridge of his nose. " _Moran_ could be up here any minute." 

"So? It's not as if he doesn't know we're together. What's he going to do, _turn us in_?" Sherlock mumbled all this without opening his eyes, but stroked John's cheek gently. 

"I suppose that isn't likely," John conceded. "But d'you really think we should be totally nude when someone does come in?" 

"It matters very little to me." 

"Sherlock, just put on your pants." 

Sherlock's sigh was more of a groan, but he reached over the edge of the four-poster and retrieved them. 

It would turn out to be lucky that they shimmied into their pants when they did. Teddy Lupin came into the room and stepped back for a moment. 

"Don't worry, we're decent," John said, though he was blushing furiously. 

"Jesus, John, you couldn't find somewhere else to get off?" he muttered, but the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk as he walked to his own bed two down and began rummaging in his trunk. 

"It seemed reasonable, considering the dormitory was vacant." 

"Sherlock, he's kidding." 

"Of course I am. Although, I'd clear out before Moran gets back, if I were you. He's not too keen on John's being so close with you." 

Good lord, if that wasn't an understatement, John thought. 

"As though he has a choice in the matter," Sherlock scoffed, not daring to mention to Teddy just how dangerous Seb was. "Besides, what do you suppose  _he's_ off doing every night?" 

If John had been drinking something, he would have coughed and sputtered. Instead he just turned to the boy lying beside him with wide eyes. Sherlock returned the gaze and shrugged. 

Teddy smiled toothlessly. He was at the mirror, teasing hair at the crown of his head as it faded from a dark plum color to a pretty lilac. "Fair point. Listen, speaking of which, I'm meeting Victoire Weasley by the lake. Don't be surprised if I'm in a little late." 

John raised an eyebrow. It was his turn to smirk knowingly. "Victoire, huh? Look out, I hear she's part veela." 

"She is," Teddy sighed, then remembered who he was speaking to and composed himself. He coughed. "But, you know. She's also, you know." He clearly didn't know what else to say. John grinned. He knew how long Teddy had carried a flame for Victoire, and it was perhaps longer than he'd even known him, them being childhood friends. "Yeah." He pulled on his cloak and coughed again. 

"See you, Teddy," John called as the boy awkwardly shuffled from the room. 

"Later, John." 

As soon as the door closed, John turned back to Sherlock. "I'd always thought Moran was off doing Moriarty's dirty work." 

"He is, in a manner of speaking." 

"But you said— _oh_." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Bloody hell, how long has it been going on, do you think?" 

"Since last term. Before they...before the lake, certainly." 

John tried and failed to imagine Moran with that maniac Moriarty in the way that Sherlock implied. Perhaps because he didn't actually want to imagine it; there were far more pleasant things to do when lying next to Sherlock Holmes than imagining a pair of psychopaths going at it in some dark corner of the castle. So John turned his attention back to his boyfriend and used the extra space that Sherlock had commandeered on his side of the bed to his advantage, throwing a leg over to straddle his thighs. 

Sherlock pulled him down for a kiss. Then he said, "Would you like to try something new?" 

John paused. "I can't say I'm not intrigued as to what you're going to suggest..." 

Sherlock shifted into a sitting position under him. "A game." 

"A game?" 

"Yes." 

"Right. And what exactly would this game entail?" 

"We go back and forth telling secrets about ourselves. For every secret I tell, I get to do something to you, and you get to do the same to me when you tell a secret." 

"But you already know everything about me!" 

"Wrong. I know everything about you  _now_ , but that's hardly everything." 

"Sherlock, is this your twisted way of finding out the intimate details of my childhood?" 

"Perhaps," Sherlock replied, now kissing his neck. 

"You know, you could just ask." 

"This is more fun." 

John smiled. "Well, if you insist on playing"—he pushed Sherlock away—"then we're playing fair." 

"If we're playing fair, I assume there's some sort of objective." 

"Yes." 

"And that would be?" 

"You came up with the game," John pointed out. 

"And you’re the one who wanted it to be an  _actual_ game!" 

"Alright," John chuckled. "The goal is to keep your head long enough to speak without stuttering." 

"Now who's being unfair," Sherlock muttered indignantly. That was his tell—John knew that Sherlock was beyond the point of no return when his letters began to jumble.  

John just smirked, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be able to turn down the challenge. "First to stutter in the middle of his secret has to take one request from the winner." 

Sherlock's ears perked up. "And this request can be...anything?" 

"Within reason," John warned. 

Sherlock may as well have rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Who should go first?" 

"Be my guest." 

"Alright, then. I pushed Mycroft from a tree when I was seven years old." 

"There's got to be a story there." 

"Perhaps one for later," Sherlock murmured, already going in for the move that he'd clearly had planned from his mention of the game, one that always worked to drive John not quite out of his mind, but to the brink of madness. His hands found their way down to John's hips and massaged slow circles as he grazed his teeth along John's earlobe. He whispered, "My lips are a bit busy at the moment," before latching them onto the spot just under John's ear. John barely managed to keep from shuddering. 

"My turn," he reprimanded. 

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, pulling away from the mark he'd left on John's neck. 

"Let's see." John considered for a moment. "Well, I had my first kiss when I was ten. Her name was Sarah. She lived next door. Still does, in fact. She's a Muggle. She was fascinated with the way I could make her dolls levitate." He sighed. "Of course, she had to get her memory modified when she went and told her parents about it. I got in trouble for that. Got told off because I was 'old enough to know better.'" 

Sherlock huffed, irritated that John had turned his secret into a short novella. "Right. Now get on with it." He was strung up with anticipation, both looking forward to and bracing himself for whatever John would do. 

The back of John's hand softly brushed across Sherlock's chest as his lips pressed against Sherlock's forehead, and it seemed for a second as though John was hardly trying. But then the chasteness of the kiss melted, slowly, more and more the further it worked its way down Sherlock's cheek, until it landed with a wet swipe of tongue against collarbone. 

Sherlock failed to stifle a gasp. John smirked against his skin. "This is too easy," he growled. 

Sherlock relaxed against the mattress, for one time in his life unconcerned with winning.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock woke on his side, a dull pain drumming in his head to draw attention away from the burning behind his eyes. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?" 

"John," he moaned, flinching as he attempted to open his eyes and found the light much too bright. 

He heard a sigh of relief from overhead. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry, Sherlock." 

He felt fingers at his wrist. John's fingers. He slowly allowed himself to look up at John's silhouette against the brightness of the blue sky reflected in the ceiling of the Great Hall. "What happened?" he demanded, though it might have come out in a more fragile tone than he'd anticipated. 

John hesitated. "I used the wrong incantation for the jelly-legs jinx. Sorry." The look in John's eyes told him something else. He glanced at the other students surrounding them, and Sherlock understood: someone had interfered in their dueling practice. 

"It's alright. You should probably take me to see Madam Pomfrey, however." 

John nodded and helped Sherlock to his feet, and although his discomfort had subsided exponentially, he allowed John's support as they walked from the room simply for the physical contact it allowed them. 

As soon as they were out of earshot of the Hall, Sherlock stopped and dragged John into one of his secret passages--which had admittedly been frequently used for purposes other than investigating lately--and, instead of drawing John in for a kiss or shoving him up against the wall, whipped around and whispered more urgently than before, "What happened?" 

"I thought we were going to hospital?" 

"You should know better. What knocked me out?" 

"I really don't know," he admitted. "One minute we were dueling, and the next...Sherlock, I was so worried." 

"Yes, yes, but I need  _details_!" Sherlock pressed, impatient. 

John glared. "I'm sorry if my concern for your safety is inconvenient to you." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, not this again. Look, am I alive?" He waved his hands around. 

"Yes," John replied curtly. 

"Am I breathing?" 

"Yes." 

"Do I appear to have been seriously harmed in any way?" 

"No, but--" 

"Then calm down and just tell me everything I missed." 

John sighed. "Sherlock Holmes," he began, shoving his face toward Sherlock's in a way neither of them was used to, aggression overpowering the usual rush of being so near each other. "If you think I was paying attention to anything but you lying on that floor, then you must not be as bright as everyone seems to think you are." 

Sherlock stepped back. "What?" 

"I thought you'd been killed!" John nearly shouted, catching himself just before he'd done so. "Or something," he added halfheartedly, realizing how dramatic that had sounded. 

"John, I..." 

Sherlock trailed off, unsure. 

John took advantage of his silence. "Sherlock, what would you have done if that had been me? How would you have felt?" 

At this, Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. "How do you  _think_ I would feel?" he spat. 

"Right now, I'm not sure if you'd feel anything." 

"John," Sherlock said sharply. "What did I do when Moriarty kidnapped you?" 

John shrugged guiltily, already realizing the very wrong implication of what he'd said. 

"I went after him. I am still going after him. Nothing he's doing at the moment is any concern of mine, yet I am _still going after him_. And I will continue to go after him. He's interesting. I'll admit, my first attempts at investigating him were a product of my fascination with his methods and his persona. And in a way, that's still the case. But I realize as well as you the danger we're both in as long as he's at this school, you in particular. What does it tell you that despite every failure of mine to expose whatever it is that he's doing, I keep at it? What does that tell you? There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe. I'm sorry if logical reasoning is the only way I know how." Tears bit at the corners of his eyes, and through the whole of his speech there was the threat of his voice breaking, but he had at least managed not to fall into a heap at John's feet. 

He was embarrassed. His skin prickled in unpleasant ways and all he wanted to do was curl into a ball and force down the lump in his throat. Right before John, who up to now had seen the rawest bits of emotion he'd thought he possessed, he was proving himself wrong on that very count.  _Sentiment_. He loved John. He knew he did. But until that exact moment, he'd never understood the extent of that love. He hadn't even really understood what love was, he realized. Love wasn't lying in bed with someone kind and funny and attractive, or gently stroking his cheek as you kissed him, or taking having him spend Christmas at your house with your family. Love wasn't any of those nice, happy feelings they'd shared, at least not by themselves. Love was, first and foremost, fear. 

"Sherlock," John urged roughly. When there was no reply, his face softened. "Sherlock?"

 Sherlock collapsed against the wall. John caught him and held him upright. He gave him a little shake. "Sherlock, you okay?" 

Concern. Again. Sherlock smiled bitterly. Then he laughed. He laughed and laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound, even to his own ears. 

"Sherlock, maybe we  _should_ take you to Madam Pomfrey." 

"No, I'm...I'm fine," Sherlock managed, though he wasn't, not by any means. Being in love was anything but  _fine_. "Come here." He hugged John to him. Didn't kiss him, just wrapped his arms around him, clutching at his robes with sweaty fingers. 

John let him, clearly afraid to do otherwise. Sherlock smiled at the thought, an actual, genuine smile. 

Because if John was afraid, then at least he wasn't alone. 

+++

"I still think we should go to Madam Pomfrey." 

"John, it's a bit late now." Sherlock was already pulling off his robes in a frenzy, his trousers halfway to his knees and his loose tie hovering somewhere around his chin as he tugged at his shirt. 

John shook his head. He supposed he'd been lucky enough to get Sherlock to Gryffindor Tower. After his sudden breakdown and the subsequent tearful embrace, he had gone right in for the kill, swooping his head down to mouth at John's earlobe while at the same time lifting John's leg to his waist and whispering, "I love you, John. I really and truly do love you." 

"Sherlock, calm down. Everyone's at Dueling Club, and then they'll all go to dinner. We can take it slowly," John pointed out now, somewhat disappointed at the lack of physical contact while Sherlock less-than-gracefully tore off his clothes. 

"I don't want to take--" Sherlock cut himself off, as though an idea had struck him. John hated that look. There was no predicting whether it would be something worth indulging or something completely mad. 

"What?" he sighed. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "D'you have anything in your trunk that might be of use to us?" 

John's eyes widened. "Erm." He coughed. "Er, I--I...maybe..." 

He knelt down to rummage in his trunk. It was a while before he resurfaced, a vial of clear liquid in hand and a suspicious look on his face. "Sherlock, what's this?" 

That smug eyebrow just wouldn't go down. "What do you think?" 

John narrowed his eyes. "It better  _be_ what I think." 

Sherlock grinned and nodded. "I put it in your trunk before we came back from Christmas. I figured you would've found it before now and taken the hint." 

"I....Hang on. Christmas? That was ages ago." 

"Exactly. I can’t believe it took you so long. I should've known I would have to take matters into my own hands." 

"Your own hands, huh?" John drawled, pulling the stopper from the vial with a  _pop_. 

"It's just a figure of speech. I'd rather you used  _your_ hands." 

John's cheeks reddened, but he smiled. "Would you?" 

"At first, yes," Sherlock answered, leaning forward to wrap his fingers around John's tie and yank him down for a heated kiss. "But that's not all I want from you, John Watson." His voice had reached the sultry rumble that elicited something of an innate response in John. 

And so John decided--as he often did--that he should give Sherlock exactly what he wanted. 


	30. Chapter 30

The best way to keep track of any suspicious activity among students, Sherlock decided, was to continue attending lessons as normal, if not more often than was typical of him. 

That was how he found himself in Defense Against the Dark Arts amidst a shuffling group of fellow Ravenclaws, who faced a large trunk which had been dragged in by their professor. 

"Can anyone tell me what I might have here?" he asked the room at large, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

A few raised their hands, but Sherlock said, "It's a boggart. Obviously." 

"Erm...yes," the teacher replied, taken aback by Sherlock's directness. 

"You've brought it here for a bit of practical learning." Sherlock paused, waiting for confirmation of his theory. "Go on," he urged after a moment. A few students snickered. 

"Right. Well." It took a moment for Professor Carthage to reclaim his bearings. "As Mr. Holmes has so kindly offered, there is a boggart inside this trunk. Now, I know you've all been practicing that incantation," he continued pointedly, at which point many students shifted uncomfortably and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's practice again, shall we?  _Ridikulus_!" 

" _Ridikulus_!" the class repeated. 

"Very good, very good. Now, form a line. That's it. You there, Young, pipe down, or I’ll have Flitwick deal with you. Good. Now, think of the thing you most fear, and turn it in your mind's eye into something funny. Got it?" 

Sherlock froze as the rest of the class nodded. He hadn't much thought about his fears, but at that moment, there was only one that came to mind. 

He thought about Moriarty. 

How on earth could he turn Moriarty into a laugh? More importantly, what would the other students think if another seemingly random student appeared before him, smirking menacingly? No doubt questions would be asked, covers blown, and even attacks provoked if any of his classmates were involved in Jim's schemes. 

No, he would just have to think of something else, he thought as the line moved forward. Did it work that way? If he was thinking of something other than Moriarty when faced with the boggart, would it change into something else? 

There were three in front of him now, the girl at the front having turned her giant bat into an extremely grumpy cat with wings it didn't seem to be able to control. 

No. He was being irrational. He realized, as the last student in front of him took her place before the trunk, that there was no stopping it. He would have to simply give Moriarty purple hair and do damage control later. 

No, that wouldn't do. He racked his brains for something better as he stepped up to take the place of the previous student, who he supposed found vampires frightening but zombies funny, as the undead dropped to the floor and rolled comically, rotting, until its back faced the crowd at the other end of the room. He waited for it to change. 

But it didn't. The boggart just lay there, still in the form of a corpse, until finally it rolled over and, instead of the rotting vampire, donned the bloodied and disfigured face of John Watson. 

All of the air left Sherlock with a great whooshing sound, and the room went completely silent as the body on the ground reached its torn and mangled hand out to him. " _Please_ ," it mouthed, and Sherlock's shoulders slumped. All potentially humourous ideas had flown from his head the moment it had moved— _John_ had moved—and all he could do was stare at the fingers with chunks of flesh missing and fight to remind himself, "No, it isn't real, that's not your John, it's just a thing that's using his face to manipulate you, John is safe in the greenhouses with Professor Longbottom and the other Gryffindors," but then the thought occurred to him. 

What if he wasn't in the greenhouses? What if something had happened that Sherlock was unaware of? He realized in that moment that it was impossible for him to always be there for John, and that there was always the possibility that Moriarty would take advantage of that. 

He heard rather than felt himself sink to his knees, still gazing stupidly at John's face, twisted in pain, pleading with him. Although he had only read the words on the night that he'd first met Moriarty, he heard the dead voice in his head, the playful accent driving him to clap his hands over his ears. 

" _John Watson is definitely in danger_." 

He raised his wand furiously and shouted, " _Ridikulus_!" The only effect it had was to bring the boggart closer, so that Sherlock could smell burnt hair and flesh and the overwhelming stench of blood and decay, and he thought of how long John must have been like this, how long he'd been tortured, before shutting that idea down and whispering, "You're not real." He had to keep himself from clamping his eyes shut as he said it. He faintly heard his name being called. "You're not. You're not real," he repeated more frantically, spotting the precise blue of John's eyes surrounded by dark bruises and the blood that had long-since dried on his face. "You're not real!" he sobbed over and over, hiding his eyes behind his fingers. 

He felt a concerned hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock." Unlike the other voices, this one was clear as a bell, and he looked up with wide eyes at the real John Watson. He was on his feet quicker than he would have ever thought possible, every one of his limbs wrapped around John as though the whole experience had turned him into some sort of constrictor. John embraced Sherlock in return, though Sherlock could feel him staring over his shoulder at his own horrible form on the floor. 

"I thought I should get you," Mike Stamford said softly, obviously shaken himself. Out of breath, too—he'd run all the way to the greenhouses and back. Fleetingly, Sherlock wondered how long he'd been on the floor. 

"Yes, thank you, Mike," John replied, also breathing heavily. Sherlock was much too busy burying his face against John's neck, feeling his healthy, strong pulse, to even nod. 

"I'd had no idea it would—he...." Alarmed, Carthage cleared his throat and tried to fight the obvious tremor in his voice as he murmured, "Well, the class period is over, I think. You're all dismissed." 

Everyone filed from the room rather more quickly and silently than usual, except for Mike, John, and Sherlock, whose weight John still supported against him. 

"Holmes," Carthage said, then thinking better of it, "Watson, perhaps you should take him to the hospital wing." 

"Sure. Mike?" John indicated the door with a tilt of his head, so that Mike would follow them. Sherlock remained silent, breathing in the distinct smell of John, clearing out the horrible stench from the boggart. 

"I wanted to thank you again, Mike. I don't—" 

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock finally piped up, lifting his head dazedly as he finally decided that there would be plenty of time for nuzzling against John later, because he was not in any immediate danger, and they were relatively safe at school, and he was never going to let John leave his sight again, anyway. 

John shook his head. "Can you walk now?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "I rather like this arrangement," he replied, resting his chin on John's shoulder. 

"What, me carrying you round like a two-year-old? Get down, idiot," John said gently, a bit of laughter touching his tone. 

Sherlock didn't get down. John didn't say anything else about it. 

Mike shook his head at the two of them. He smiled. "I'm off to class. I would offer to tell Professor Binns where you are, Sherlock, but I doubt he'll notice." 

"Thank you, Mike," Sherlock said, and he knew he could never thank him enough. 

When Mike left them for History of Magic, John looked at Sherlock. "You okay?" 

Sherlock kissed him. "I am now." 

"Good. I really should take you to see Madam Pomfrey, get something for shock—" 

"Please, John, I'm fine." Sherlock somehow managed to roll his eyes and get across his usual mischief in the same moment. 

"No, Sherlock, I've got to get to Transfiguration," John said firmly. "Some of us are actually concerned about our OWLs." 

"Oh, not that again. It's not important!" 

"Yes it is. You're going to Madam Pomfrey. You won't be there long, and she'll probably just send you back up to Ravenclaw Tower." 

"D'you want to meet me there after your lesson?" Sherlock tried. 

"Absolutely."


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned. More in the end note.

Another Hogsmeade weekend and a continued lack of leads meant John had one way to deal with a restless Sherlock.

They had already been to Honeydukes for some Chocolate Frogs. Now they were sat in the corner of The Three Broomsticks, Sherlock prodding at a chocolate frog leg to see how it would respond.

"Chocolate Frogs are surprisingly innovative, for a sweet," Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"Not alive, and not real, certainly, but a very good semblance of reality. You might think one of these things was sentient. But then"--he pulled the leg suddenly from the frog, which didn't react in the slightest to having a limb pulled from its body--"we mustn't forget that it's just chocolate." He popped the leg into his mouth. "John, you're staring."

John couldn't find words. He just sat with a strange smile on his face, brow furrowed, trying to figure out where this conversation was going and worrying vaguely whether he'd fallen in love with a sociopath. "It's nothing."

Sherlock studied him. "Is it?"

"It's just all very romantic. Sitting here, torturing small chocolate animals."

"Didn't you hear me, John? It can't feel it. It isn't alive."

"I'm only joking, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a sip of his butterbeer. "I'm getting bored."

"I can tell."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock moved over to share John's bench and leaned against him, looking up at the ceiling. "We could go over potions ingredients."

John rolled his eyes.

"You're the one who wanted to stay in and study," Sherlock said.

"And you're the one who dragged me out into the cold!"

"John!" Sherlock whined.

"Fine! Fine. Go ahead."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "Befuddlement Draught."

John sighed. "Alright, let's see...scurvy grass and sneezewort..."

"Good."

"Is that it?"

"You're forgetting one."

"I am?"

"Mhmm," Sherlock hummed, shrugging himself closer to John and closing his eyes.

"It's not...lovage, is it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"It is?"

"Yep."

"Alright." John smiled, more confident. "Another."

"Hmm...Forgetfulness Potion."

John laughed. "Yeah, okay. That one's easy. Two drops of Lethe River Water, two Valerian sprigs, two measures of Standard Ingredient, four mistletoe berries."

"All correct. Draught of Living Death?"

John thought long and hard about that one before realizing he'd never studied it. "That's not going to be on our OWLs."

"How do you know?"

"Because fifth years aren't supposed to be able to make it."

"I can make it."

"Of course you can. You don't count."

Through all of this, Sherlock's eyes had remained shut. He finally opened them, frowned. "I don't count?"

"No. You're too bloody smart. And don't act like you think I meant it that way."

Sherlock smirked. "Damn. I thought I had you."

"You can't guilt trip me. I know you too well."

"Of course. There's no fooling you, John Watson."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"No?"

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "You've got me fooled, I think."

"If it's any consolation, you've fooled me as well, which is much more difficult to do."

"Thank you, I think," John replied, eyebrows raised.

"We should go back up to the castle. As much as I admire this method of study, I think I'd like to reward you when you're correct, and Gryffindor Tower might be better suited for that."

John's face went red, but he stood and held his hand out for Sherlock. "I dunno when Moran'll be back, but all the rest have said they won't be in 'til late."

Sherlock's eyes lit up, but his smirk was more subdued. "Perfect."

On their way out to the street, they almost literally ran into Molly. "Oh, hi, Sherlock. John."

"Hello, Molly."

"Are you going back up to the castle? If you see Clara, could you tell her I found that book she was looking for? We're going for a new strategy on the Quidditch pitch." She smiled. "You boys don't know what you're in for."

"We'll tell her. But I don't know how much good a new strategy will do you," John joked.

"Oh, we're not worried about _you_ ," Molly countered. "No offense to Harry, but Sherlock is my only competition out there."

"You're _all_ fairly mediocre," Sherlock put in playfully.

Molly shook her head. "I'll see you later, then?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Goodbye, Molly."

Before leaving the village, Sherlock bought some more Chocolate Frogs.

"Are you sure you don't want to try some practical potions work?" Sherlock whined as they trudged back, their scarves pulled tight against the wind. They were already halfway up the drive.

"What happened to your 'positive reinforcement'?"

It didn't look like Sherlock had an answer, but regardless of whether he was about to reply, he didn't get to.

Lestrade was shouting as he ran past them. A few moments later, Mary was right behind.

Sherlock just barely managed to grab her arm. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"Molly Hooper. She's been...attacked or something."

"Or something?"

"We don't know what happened, no one saw. Greg found her in the alley behind The Three Broomsticks--"

They didn't catch whatever she said after that, because John was following right on the tails of Sherlock's billowing cloak, back to Hogsmeade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for my unanticipated hiatus. With everything that has been going on in my life for the past couple of months, I've had a hard time being productive in ways I'd like to. Everything's fine, though, and now I'm back to a chapter every other week. Also, I've got a chapter count now! After all, we're over halfway through, so I wanted to give you guys an idea of how much more to expect.
> 
> Anyway, have a good two weeks. I PROMISE I'll be back again.


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